


Jus Ad Bellum

by seperis



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-09-17
Updated: 2001-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 156,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Rogue. Two timelines. Three personalities. Every possibility. Rogue discovers who she is, could have been, and everything she can become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Glimmer-Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Darkstar, for her post-MRA challenge that turned out to be this. Minisinoo, Deejay, Shana, and Ann, who did the betas, corrections, questions about ethics, and midnight emails that probably didn't make much sense but they answered anyway. Min for the title as well as the beta, long email convos I used for reference, and excellent advice on worldbuilding. Fyrdrakken, for commentary and an unusual conversation on idealism, not to mention the advice she gave me to complete Part IV and begin Part V. Beth, jengrrrl, and Misty, for being ultra-supportive and kind enough to not comment on the fact I was obsessing over really irrelevant details, not to mention the AIM panic attacks I indulged in on a weekly (daily?) basis.
> 
> Further notes are located at the end of the fic.

* * *

_"For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."_   
_—Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians 13:12_

* * *

"That'll be thirty-one fifty-two," the cashier said, shifting away from me when I started hunting through my jeans pockets for the money. He tended to try and mask his unease in a thousand little ways—finding a stray penny beside the register, fixing the rows of cigarettes behind him, choosing that moment to restock the candy jar on the far side of the worn yellow counter from me. Straightening his white button-up shirt, he gave me a quick glare before turning to the register in unconcealed impatience.

Convenience stores in Salem sucked, and if it hadn't been an emergency, I would have damned well waited until Jubilee got home and let her go out for this stuff. She didn't give a good damn how people acted around her; me, I got sensitive about crap like the cashier was pulling. He might as well have blazed a sign screaming 'Mutants Not Welcome Here; GO AWAY'.

Great guy. I idly wondered how far I could drop kick him.

In general, the cashiers in Salem were uncomfortable around mutants. You'd think by now they'd be used to us, but no dice. We needed tampons and applesauce and clean underwear just like any normal human, and we didn't wander around trying to kill or mutilate the local human population for sport—but they just _didn't_ get it. The connection between the fact that the school was located here and that Salem had the lowest crime rate in the country was never quite made by the residents.

Idiots.

Not everyone in Salem was like that, I was sure of it. Just all the ones I'd met, one of the many reasons I hated shopping alone. The sideways looks of dislike and fear, the way people jerked out of my way as if I carried the latest and greatest version of the plague—none of these things a good shopping experience made. Jubilee could take that sort of thing and brush it off—I simply couldn't.

Shifting on the stained concrete floor, I tried to check my back pocket. No money there either, and my nylon gloves didn't make it any easier to feel if it was there.

"It's gotta be here," I muttered to myself, and the cashier's mouth twisted in contempt. He didn't even try to hide it. I ignored him—after all, this was normal. Here, money, money, money; where's the money. Took it from 'Ro, grabbed my keys off my desk—I could swear I put it in my front jeans pocket. A sigh came from his general direction and I gritted my teeth. "Just a sec."

The gloves made him nervous—he knew what I was, after all, even if he didn't know my particular situation. Gloves in eighty-degree summer heat were something that _had_ to get some notice. And since mutants reacted to me in similar ways (though granted, they tended to hide it better), I certainly wasn't gonna say that he was outta line or anything—especially since Carol. Just—annoying. Like I'm suddenly really hot to play the part of a schizophrenic and spend some quality time in that little isolation chamber downstairs at the Mansion for a few weeks. Oh yeah, my idea of a good time was definitely to have no control over my body and have a thousand foreign thoughts drowning out my voice. Always fun. Great. Grrrr.

_—Cool it, darlin'.—_

Practice ten days ago, and an accidental touch. Refreshed my inner Logan. Oh goodie.

_—Shut up, Logan.—_

The snickering in my head faded slowly, and I bit my lip, before my fingers brushed the paper trapped deep in my pocket. Hooking a finger on the bills, I fished them up and out, dropping them neatly on the counter (I knew better than to try to hand them over personally). The cashier—with the oh-so-original-name of Joe—slowly picked them up, and I gave into temptation and cracked my gum. He jumped. Love it. I'm such a bitch. Should be in my resume—you know, along with Energy Absorber and Ass-Kicker Extraordinaire, Carrier of the Personality Formerly Known As Carol Danvers and Part of the Personality Currently Known as Logan.

Of course, I sort of liked the name Rogue. Shorter.

"Here you go." I was understanding when he carefully laid the change on the counter and stepped back again as I reached out a gloved hand to take it. Three Washingtons, one Lincoln—I could stop by McDonalds on the way home and miss Shepherd's Pie for lunch. Thank God for small miracles. Folding them into my hand, I wiped a palm over my forehead, wishing, not for the first time, that Logan's senses hadn't been recharged in me from that latest encounter. The scent of fear and tobacco was not particularly conductive to calmness—made me itch for a cigarette, in fact. I didn't smoke—Logan did. Damn.

Grabbing the bag, I did one last spot check on purchases—tampons for me, applesauce for Jubes, some firecrackers for Johnny—we're good to go. I smiled brightly at Joe. No 'thanks for shopping here' from him, though I wondered if he was aware that mutant purchasers made up three quarters of his clients and probably most of his profits. He'd go out of business if not for us.

"Thanks." Smile, Rogue. Look cute and harmless, as if flies are in no danger when you are near. He didn't seem reassured. Sorry, babe, I got a monthly emergency here, no time to babysit your xenophobia.

"Mutie," he mumbled as I got to the door. He probably thought I was out of range of hearing—or did he? Hot color splashed up my face as I shifted the bag to my other arm and used my free hand to push open the door, making the tiny bell ring merrily.

It was sudden, unexpected, and pretty much the definition of shock—there _was_ no door, because someone else pulled it open, and my hand had nothing but air to grab on to.

Picture it, if you will—one Rogue, one bag, one handful of change, with no support. This wasn't going to be pretty. Falling forward, I instinctively avoided grabbing for anything—I'd gotten into messes doing that—and wished I'd practiced hovering more so I could catch myself mid-air. Damn, damn, damn. Another thing Logan was gonna smirk about, reminding me that those hours I spend training with him _aren't_ just so I have great legs and good toning.

That's when my chin hit the concrete sidewalk and I bit my tongue—hard—instantly alighting my head with all sorts of new and uninteresting varieties of pain. And wouldn't you know, invulnerability didn't cover that. Go figure. Instantly, a hand was under my arm and the stars in front of my eyes left me completely vulnerable to whatever the poor unsuspecting person was planning on doing.

Dear God, why hadn't I worn long sleeves?

"I'm sorry." The voice sounded frantic, dangerously close to my ear. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I—I—let me help you with this." Carefully, I was deposited on the sidewalk with a sort of weird combination of concern and out-and-out fear—I could even smell it, and shit, did I _seriously _need heightened senses on top of everything else? Vaguely, through the pounding of my head, I could hear whoever it was—and the voice was male, so I was going out on a limb and saying man—begin to gather up my dropped items and deposit them in back in the bag. Rubbing my forehead, I didn't even try to do it myself—I felt like my brain was trying to squeeze its way out my ears. Ouch. Shit and ouch.

In Salem, I could honestly have said that they could watch me being murdered in the street and probably not give a damn. Apparently, I was wrong.

Before I could quite bring myself to say anything, the money was thrust into my free hand and my fingers closed over it reflexively.

"Here. I found all of it—I didn't take any. I can—if some's missing, I can look for it for you. Okay?"

I rubbed my head and tentatively opened my eyes to see if they worked. Yep. All in good working order. Yeah for me. Invulnerability DID do something. With a quick glance down at my hand to see that a five and three ones were present, along with sundry coins, I looked up at the man who was hovering over me with desperate concern.

My attempt at a smile faded instantly

He was soaked with fear, and I'd never run into that before. He was crouched beside me on the hot concrete, so I couldn't quite judge his height, though he was tall. Faded jeans that had obviously seen better days, a long-sleeved blue shirt that needed an iron like no one's business, cross-trainers that should have been honorably retired to a landfill somewhere. Geez, I thought I was the only masochist who wandered around in hot weather wearing heavy clothing. Dark hair and bright blue eyes. Oh God, a hottie if there ever was one. Yummy.

And scared. So scared and I had no idea why.

"Umm—yeah, that's it," I said, trying to look alluring, but the inner pounding of my head didn't help. He leaned over me with disturbing levels of consideration. "Thanks, Mr.—"

"Andrews. John—John Andrews." He paused, blinking rapidly—the fear was so strong I was getting nauseated and Logan's dormant fight-or-flight was beginning to kick into sluggish gear. Great. Just great. Wonderful time for an unheralded flashback of powers. Aching head, skinned knee and chin, and I needed to seriously go feral on someone who was already so afraid I was getting the distinct impression he might wet his pants if he wasn't careful. Joy. "I'm so sorry—I didn't see you at the door. I—I—"

"I'm Marie," I said, wisely choosing not to extend a hand—his fear was so hot that I was pretty sure he might pass out if I moved too quickly. Slowly, I stood up—instantly, his hand was under my elbow, supporting me as I found my footing. "Nice to meet you, though the circumstances suck, huh?" I grinned up at him, a little surprised he'd touched me—mutants, as stated above, just _aren't_ welcome around Salem. And wow, I'd so underestimated the good citizens of the town—this guy was seriously nice.

"Do you—can I carry these for you? To your car? I'm so sorry—I didn't, I swear I didn't see you." He was already reaching for my bag—and were his hands shaking? Quickly, I intercepted him, closing my fingers over the brown paper.

"No, it's okay."

He froze. Okay, moving from strange quickly into weird. Big blue eyes looked up into mine, reminding me yet again, damn, he was hot. Hot and helpful. That's a combo you don't see every day. I crouched to pick up the bag—the aching was cooling down, why thank you , invulnerability, you're so kind to FINALLY notice I'm damaged.

"Um—do you need me to do anything? I—I can—" He swallowed as my body lifted in an abbreviated hover—shit, _now _I decide to scare the boy even further? I concentrated and replanted my feet on the ground, wondering what on earth could have inspired me to try and screw myself over this way. Focusing on John—half expecting him to make a run for it—I noted his eyes were widening and the fear scent was increasing exponentially. Dear God, kid, just stop already, what on earth have you heard about me? I'd _never_ run into this level of terror before—even the most idiotic of the FoH never gave off anything close to this. His eyes weren't on me though—suddenly, they were fixed over my shoulder and I turned to see a man in uniform approach.

I didn't recognize the uniform—vaguely paramilitary, and inner-Logan was growling softly. Had to hope I wasn't doing it out loud or I'd be in for trouble. Instantly, I took a step backward, trying to think of what to do. Running, while attractive, just didn't seem like the wisest option, all things considered. I hovered. In public. Oh, the stupidity. Oh the stupidity, the foolishness of doing that and _if_ I was so suicidal as to hover in full view of the public, _couldn't_ I have done it earlier so I wouldn't have a _tres _aching knee and a serious headache?

And he asked me—

"Is anything wrong, ma'am?"

I gaped a little—no words were emerging at first. The frown deepened and his gaze went to John. I looked quickly—and the man did such an impersonation of a statue as to make anyone proud. Or scared. Really, incredibly scared, and the ache behind my eyes was getting worse, working its way to the twitch of my fingers and the adrenaline trying to kick-start me into action.

It was as if he thought this guy could do something to him....

"Umm—no." Clutching my bag to my chest, I started to edge away—uniformed people did nothing for me except Bad Things. "Everything's fine, sir."

"Is he bothering you?"

Blinking, I turned my gaze on John, who was—dear God, he was shaking. He extended a hand, and I saw something flash at his wrist, something in dark blue that kicked over a memory for me. I tried to nudge it out, but it wouldn't come, so I turned my full attention back outwards. The uniformed man was still frowning, vaguely threatening, and every hair on my body went on alert. Oh, this wasn't good. This was surreal and Not Good all at the same time.

"No—he just helped me out, that's all." The man's gaze didn't leave John—and the fear smell was beyond belief. No, not fear—this was terror, pure and simple, and I'd been to horror movies where the entire audience didn't generate anything at this level. "I'm fine, thanks. I—uh—I gotta go." Weird. Too weird, even for me. Quickly, I groped for my keys in my pocket, fumbling them out and nearly dropping them in my haste.

"You know you're not allowed on this side of town, boy. Maybe you should get going back."

Huh?

"Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I—I'm going." His gaze went to me. "Sorry, ma'am. I'm—I'm glad you're okay. Thanks." He turned and quickly began to scurry down the parking lot. His gaze flickered over his shoulder and I got the distinct impression that once he was out of sight, he would be going straight into a flat out run.

What the....

"Sorry about that, ma'am." The man's voice was suddenly gentle. "You're from the School, right?"

"Yes." Umm, yeah. Yes, I am. And you care why...?

"I'm sorry about that—they just pull crap like that." He shook his head with what appeared to be—exasperation? Disgust, definitely, and that was new. Did John have a reputation of some kind in town? "I'll make sure he doesn't bother you again." With something resembling a salute, he turned and walked away, and I followed his progress for a few minutes, before making a break for my car.

My car, my nice six year old Eclipse...

Which was NOT in the parking lot. In point of fact, there were no cars in the parking lot. And for sure, when I walked in, there'd been twenty.

In every direction around me, the empty parking lot stretched without mercy to the high wooden fences that separated this lot from the two adjoining. Grey, sleek, just as I remembered, _sans_ it's intended users; to wit, vehicles.

_—Marie, darlin', you sure you're okay?—_

_—Well, I don't know, sugar. How hard did I hit my head?—_ In point of fact, I hit my chin, not my head, I didn't really black out, and what the hell was going on?

Standing in the middle of the lot, I stared around me, trying to get a grip on the situation, which was spiraling toward Freaky real damn fast. Slowly, I put down my bag and realized I still had my change clutched in my hand.

One five, three ones, some metal, enough to get a cab. I took the coins to stuff in my jeans pocket and began to fold the bills when I froze, staring in shock at them in my hand.

I mean, how often, really, do we take a good look at our money?

It looked as if ole George Washington had taken a hiatus. The face that looked back at me had starred in my worst nightmares often enough, however, that I recognized it immediately.

Senator Robert Kelley was sure moving up in the world for a dead man.

Slowly, I sank down into the hot asphalt of the lot and tried to think, ignoring the soft pounding in my knee and the sharper pounding of my head. Obviously, someone with a sick sense of humor made this. Funny money, how cute. How very fucking cute. Though—though it smelled real. I lifted it to my nose, taking a breath. It smelled VERY real. Like...like money, like sweat and musty-detergent from my jeans, slightly metallic from the register or the coins it had been pressed against in my hand. Frantically, I flipped up the next two—Robert Kelley smiled back at me with disturbing amounts of good humor. The five was fine—there we go, back in the real world, Lincoln old buddy, we're good.

I had to be hallucinating.

But no—spreading out the three dollars and the five with trembling fingers, I looked between them. No difference. There was Lincoln, and there was Kelley, and they both smiled back at me as if totally unaware that they were doing their damndest to give me a heart attack. Bastards.

Breathe, Rogue. You're stronger than this. Obviously, this is some sort of weird, super-elaborate practical joke. Obviously. Obviously, that nice boy and the cashier and someone else has set you up, even got a man to dress up for you too. This little stunt has Bobby and Jubes written all over it. Oh yes, my dearest friends, this was their idea of a good joke.

And then they took my car. Took my car so I couldn't get home and then set this up, told that guy—John? John Andrews?—to trip me up, and then that guy with the gun. All of it. And I—and I should march right back in that store and demand that I get real money back. Or—or find that cute guy who obviously was trying to distract me with his fear scent, all kinds of odd there. I was going to choke Jubes with her own tongue. This wasn't funny. By no stretch of the imagination could this be considered funny. It was sick and twisted, and my car was gone—

—and there wasn't even a little puddle of oil where it had been, and my car always leaked oil. It leaked at stop signs, for goodness sake. Logan and I had been planning to get that fixed finally this weekend. But here, now, there was no oil, as if my car hadn't even been in this space. Crawling the four inches that separated me from the lines of paint that made up the edging, I stared at the asphalt for an endless moment, trying to register the fact that this parking lot was not only devoid of my oil stains, but it was _clean_. The lines were freshly drawn snowy-white, there was—I stopped, sitting back on my heels to think.

If thinking could be applied to the nasty hamsteresque circles my mind was running.

Scrambling in a circle (maybe I parked over _there_), I looked at all the empty spaces. Oil cleaned up, yeah—but there wasn't even a stain. There was nothing. My car, the car I drove and that leaked a merry trail of oil, had never touched its year-old Michelin wheels in this lot. It was that simple.

Calm, Rogue. There's an explanation for all of this.

"Ma'am?"

Black boots, grey pants, weaponry, deep voice. My eyes traveled upward in the vain hope that I'd just imagined that voice.

Paramilitary guy was back, looking worried. Paramilitary guy was wearing an M-16 and there was Glock at his hip. I blinked—I knew my weaponry; I could identify on sight any weapon made in any country from the year 1900 on, and a shitload of stuff before that. A few other things were attached to the wide utility belt that I _didn't_ recognize, but those two certainly had my full and undivided attention.

And while an M-16 wouldn't necessarily hurt me much, it could slow me down.

"My—My car is gone." My mouth was dry, and were my hands shaking? Clasping them behind me, I looked up at him, hoping to God my face wasn't betraying me as much as my body was. He wasn't a joke—you don't get stuff like that gun for a practical joke.

"Your car?" He scowled, wide jaw tightening, and I forced myself not to wince. "Little norm bastard." He extended a gloved hand to me. "Ma'am—"

Norm bastard?

"Marie." The ma'am's were scaring me. Seriously scaring me.

"Lieutenant Bartlesby, ma'am." The hand was still out and I slowly tucked my money in my pocket, tentatively taking the hand and letting the thick fingers close over mine. "Do you need a ride back to the School?"

I froze for a second. The Professor would know what was going on. He'd understand. He'd kick Bobby's and Jubilee's asses for doing this. Oh yes—I'd sic Logan on them too. I had a headache and a serious case of the willies, and I sure as _fuck_ didn't need this sort of crap on top of it.

"Yes, please." Without ceremony, Bartlesby bent to pick up my bag and turned toward the road—and how odd, there were no cars. This was Saturday morning; there were _always_ cars out. Always. Packed. In jams, even. But not one to be seen and the hairs on my body seemed to lift even further. Dear God, what the hell was going on? "Thank you, sir."

_—Did you just agree to let a government military officer take you home?—_

_—Shut up, Logan. Give me a better idea here.—_

He—Bartelsby—smiled a little.

"No problem, ma'am. I'm sorry this happened—we haven't had an incident like this in a long time. I'm sure we'll find your car soon."

In my experience, a stolen car was as good as vanished—probably on its way to Mexico for a new paint job, but why on earth would anyone _want_ it? It wasn't that great, though it ran well, and that oil leak—surreptitiously, I glanced around the parking lot toward the exit. No line of oil. Damn. What sort of car thief fixed your oil before they stole your car?

"I can—can give you a description." Eclipse, dark green. All mine. I loved it. I wanted it back. Kill Jubes and Bobby for this. You ever met them, sir? Even if you do carry guns? Very big guns?

"I'm sure it's on file already, ma'am. We won't have any trouble getting it back."

I—_what_?

"You—you do?"

He nodded, still smiling—that smile was beginning to grate too. It had things in it—knowledge I didn't have and I hated to be left out. Especially out of this joke—and it had to be a joke.

"Of course. We have all of the School's vehicles registered." He paused for a moment as we came to the sidewalk lining the street, and I took the opportunity to look around. Nothing weird, nothing at all. Fewer cars. Granted. Perhaps we could say even _no_ cars. Everything nice—pretty June day, blue sky, bright sun, not a cloud to be seen. Hallmark day, right outta a television special. This was...some mistake. Weird, weird mistake.

Weird mistake on Salem's biggest shopping day that the entirety of the town was disturbingly silent. No cars, no—people. Nothing. In the distance, there was a vague grey blob, tall and oddly familiar, though—and I blinked, trying to clear my gaze to see. Without thinking, I let my lessons take over and lifted off the ground—oh SHIT. Bad idea. Exercising mutant powers in public—not bright. Not bright at all.

The man paused and I alighted quickly, flushing.

"Sorry," I said quickly. What the hell was wrong with me? "I didn't—"

"Ma'am?" His gaze was blank. Maybe he hadn't been paying attention. Though he didn't look like the sort that missed much.

"For—doing that," I clarified. Still blank. "Flying."

"Why should you—" he stopped, frowning a little, but his hands never left my bag and looked entirely uninterested in going for the weaponry. "I'm happy to be of service, ma'am."

What the FUCK was that?

"Huh?"

He stopped, turning to face me.

"You wanted a ride back to the school—I'm glad to be of service."

It was obvious—I'd hit my head and I was currently hallucinating this entire thing. Setting my feet in pause mode, I drew in a breath.

"Sir, I—"

_—Stop.—_

Logan was completely awake in my head. I froze in place—it'd been a long time since I'd felt him like that. The pounding in my head increased suddenly and I stumbled, blinking through the sudden intensity of having so much of his personality pressing inside my skull, reawakening the fading headache.

_—Logan—_

_—Don't do anything. Don't say anything else. Agree with whatever he says. That's military, darlin'. You don't wanna give him any ammo against you. Stop, listen, nod. That's it.—_

"...just a lieutenant, ma'am." I'd missed something. Logan in my head stretched idly and made himself comfortable for the show—how long ago was the most recent touch again?

"All right." I nodded carefully, and his blank expression cleared. Looking at him, really looking at him now, he was young. Very young. Maybe twenty-four or five, barely older than I was. Handsome, in a vaguely standard-military-issue sort of way, dark hair cropped close. Scared me to death, because there was no good reason for him to be nice to me. None at all.

"If you'll come this way, ma'am." What the hell was with those ma'am's? I nodded, feeling for my keys in my pockets, wondering where we were going. Okay, so no car, weird change, weird guy, this is a pattern, chica. Just sit back and think about it. Sit back and follow the nice man on this turn—

To the left of the wooden fence that separated the lot of the store from the next lot, we made a left onto a sidewalk I didn't remember being there. I looked down, studying it; it didn't look particularly new. There were water stains and ingrained dirt from what could have been years of use, but this was supposed to be a weedy lot; I was sure of it. I'd seen the for-sale sign when I drove up. Following to the edges of the sidewalk, I noted the thick dark green turf, well tended, neatly mowed—then what looked like....

My eyes slowly traveled up in utter disbelief.

_—What the fuck is that?—_

I came stock still and it took several seconds for Paramili—I mean, Bartlesby—to catch on to the fact I was no longer following. I half-wished he'd just walked on and the rest of me didn't care whether he stopped or went.

_—I'm not seeing that, Logan.—_

No answer. Inner Logan got a glance and was pretty much the definition of speechless.

Chain link, many feet tall, outer fence. A glimpse of barbed wire within. I slowly followed it's height upward until I could see the top, and the shininess that tangled over it. Shiny, fine something that glinted in the sunlight. I _recognized_ it, flashing into a memory that wasn't mine.

_—Razor wire.— _Logan's voice was grim. —_That's razor wire. Eighteen feet chain-link, two feet razorwire. Check the length.—_

I was just beyond the post that made up one corner of the fence—turning slightly, I watched it stretch into the distance to my right so I couldn't even get an estimate—to my left, same thing, ending in another vague greyish shape that my memory was trying to retrieve for study. Some bored person had erected an endless chain-link fence in the middle of downtown Salem while I was shopping, which rated among the weirdest things I'd run across yet. The competition was blown away.

That _hadn't_ been there when I'd gone into that store. No question.

"Ma'am?"

Mr. Paramilitary/Bartlesby guy was beside me, hand on my elbow.

_—Logan, is that was it.... But it can't be.—_

Erik's memories were faded, distant with time, but they blended now into the images Logan gave me. Abruptly, I was standing in the middle of a burned-out field in Germany, the smells of unwashed bodies and death as thick as the humidity that surrounded me, a rush of sick horror and utter despair, a rush that left me breathless. Double vision, from Erik, who stood behind them as a child—and from Logan, who stood before them as a soldier.

I _recognized_ this.

_—Dear God.—_

"Are you all right?"

_—Don't tell him anything. Take it, baby. Just take it and walk and watch.—_ Logan was deadly serious, more serious than I'd ever heard him before. Realizing I wasn't moving—I wasn't sure I'd be able to move, truth be told—he pushed forward and took over, moving my feet along.

"Fine," I heard myself whisper and ripped back control, stumbling a little from the inner shift. Automatically, my hand went out to catch myself on the fence and just as automatically, Bartlesby somehow got on my other side, between me and the fence, catching my covered wrist in a firm grip.

"Ma'am!" His hand was over mine, gently leading it away from the fence, supporting me until I got my balance back. "You don't want to do that—" he paused. "It's powered with electrical current. I don't know if you—are you okay with that?"

Am I okay with a chain link fence in the middle of Salem that's powered with electricity? Sure I am.

"It's—it's okay," I said slowly. I raised a hand to my head. This couldn't be real. "Headache."

He nodded as if he understood and shifted his grip to my covered elbow, leading me down the narrow corridor made up by the old wooden store fence and the—THE fence. "Just a little further, ma'am. I need to get my truck and speak to my superiors."

Superiors. There were more of them. More men in uniform, more M-16s, more of this terribly strange politeness that seemed to translate to a cross between respect and fear.

_—Go with it. Nod and do whatever he says. Just go with it until you know more.—_

_—Logan, this isn't Salem. This was not here when I walked in. You know what that means?—_

_—Um...—_

_—I'm in a coma somewhere because I really did hit my head harder than I thought. This is all a remarkable hallucination.—_ Leaving off the fact I didn't remember hitting my head.

Logan was quiet for a moment.

_—Marie, it isn't a hallucination. I'd know.—_

_—You're just one of my personalities. How the fuck would you know?—_

_—I know when you're dreaming, don't I?—_

I almost froze at that, but inner-Logan was stronger than he'd ever been and got my feet to keep going. He'd woken me from my nightmares and protected me in my dreams. Yes, he'd know.

_—Is Carol still in there?—_

A low growl was my answer. Okay. Logan didn't care much for Carol Danvers. In life, he'd had no issues with her, but in death, there'd been a merry hell of fighting for control of my body. I'd won, but Logan had never forgotten and this attitude showed in how he hung out in my mind. Inside, he and Carol were not quite equal powers—she had the most of herself in there, but Logan was fresher. It was weird and gave me headaches if I thought about it too much.

Of course, I already had a headache.

_—Get out there and watch, darlin'. See what the hell is going on.—_

I re-emerged into the real world and blinked, glancing at Bartlesby to see if he'd noticed my inattention. He'd come to an abrupt stop beside me, his hand on my arm bringing me up short as well, and I hovered slightly before catching my balance. Frowning, I gave the area a once over, wondering why he'd paused—and my curious visual search stopped cold as it met the reality of the strange grey blob I'd seen from a distance.

Silvery-metal, shining in the sunlight, as if a thousand hands had wandered over it with polish to bring that glowing perfection. Instantly, I was in Germany and staring up at an abandoned tower, the smells of ash and burning assaulting every sense. Squinting high above, I looked at the soldiers stationed at the top, weapons out, ready for anything.

_—Logan, I'm going to start screaming.—_

_—Thirty feet high. Fuck.—_ I grasped for control, somehow finding my balance, schooling myself into normality. Don't give anything away. Logan's paranoia turned out to be useful for once.

_—Sixteen individual scents—hold it, sugar.—_I sniffed as a light breeze carried different scents toward me_ —They aren't all human.—_

Logan couldn't smell mutations per se—but some things came across in scent that related to mutation. Sabretooth, for one, had a strong feline presence in his scent, marking him as mutant. Magneto had the faintest bite of metal. There were at least three people whose mutations were of the animal variety in this area.

A green-skinned young woman came forward, frowning, and I didn't need scent to identify her. Slightly iridescent scales marched across her throat in even rows, and I could see what could be something vaguely gill-like just behind her ears before short black hair swung forward to cut across her cheeks in a razor-fine line. Never had I ever seen a physically mutated person wander around in public. Never. Not unless they could hide it or they had a death wish.

Her uniform was similar to Bartlesby's—plain military grey, utterly forgettable except for all that serious weaponry that a domestic arena should never need, and a set of metal pendants or rank insignia on her collar. I squinted to see if I could identify her rank and military branch—this was most definitely _not_ American army.

"Lieutenant?" Her voice was sharp, reptilian yellowish eyes roaming over me, trying to decide what I was. I tried not to gape—after all, I'd seen more unusual, didn't I live with Hank McCoy? Bartelsby snapped into full salute mode and my inner Logan groaned.

_—What?—_

_—He's doing it all wrong.—_

And this is something Logan would worry about. Go figure.

"...and I offered to take her back to the School."

The woman turned on me—apparently, I'd missed most of that conversation. I couldn't let that continue to happen; I was missing too much already. I forced my attention onto her as her thin lips parted, revealing a slightly pointed tongue in vague shades of seaweed.

"Name?"

"Marie Danvers," I heard my voice say, and my inner Logan growled again. Oh hell, hello Carol. Been awhile.

_—Shut up, Logan. She needs help.—_Carol's voice was faint, testy, and my headache, which had been fading, returned in all its former glory as she pressed inside my mind, taking up a comfortable residence to watch the show.

"Classification?"

It took a moment for the sense to penetrate on the question. I hadn't thought of myself like that before, though God knew, I'd seen my own files often enough.

"Alpha class."

Ah, that was interesting—the woman straightened. Respect. Awe, even.

"You're new here?"

Oh yeah, you'd better believe it, chickadee.

"Just arrived. I was on my way to the School and—my car was stolen." Silently, I hoped John Andrews ran long and far. This wasn't looking good for him. Not at all. Car stealing. These people were seriously freaking me out.

"Mr. Lensherr will want to see you, then." She smiled with such open friendliness I felt another rise of panic and had to force it down. "Welcome to the Salem Complex. I'm Captain Reherr." Dismissing Bartlesby with a nod, she took the bag from him and motioned for me to follow her. "You haven't been here before?" I blinked and slowly followed her to the tower, shaking my head mutely. I didn't think I could speak. "You'll need to pick up some ID while you're here—I can do that now for you. Is there anything else you need?"

"All my—my stuff was in my car." First things first. Marie Danvers didn't have brown hair with a white streak. That was Rogue.

_—Nice of you to remember that, honey.—_

_—Where's Logan?— _I didn't like her in my head. It felt wrong.

_—Here. He's letting me handle it. Be a good girl and follow the nice woman. Then choose someone you can absorb.—_

Whoa doggies. I almost stopped still

_—I sure as hell am not!—_

Inner Carol and Inner Logan suddenly banged together in my head and the headache slammed through me with a suddenness that was startling.

_—Kid, this isn't your Salem. You realize that, right?—_

_—No shit, Sherlock.—_

I figured out that part. Wherever the hell I was, this wasn't home.

_—So, you wanna get up to date on where the hell you actually are before you meet up with Erik Lensherr? Or did you miss that part of the conversation?—_

No, I hadn't. I hadn't missed that at all. I was blocking it, and doing a pretty kick-ass job at that, too.

The woman had paused to look at me curiously. Ah, missed speaking. Get back in the real world, Rogue. Get up to date. Don't freak out. Remain calm.

"Sorry." I rubbed my head. "Headache."

Her expression cleared and she nodded gently before gesturing me to follow her again. I took in her weaponry in a quick, sideways glance. M-16, Glock, standard issue apparently, as she opened the door to the watchtower with a quick swipe of a card she pulled from her pocket. As my eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior of the building, I realized I was surrounded by uber-respectful people in uniform who saluted en masse. Several were mutants. Wait...

_—My God. They're all mutants, aren't they?—_ Inner Logan did an internal nod in agreement with my assessment. Most were visible mutations—two were scent-confirmation on feral tendencies. As Reherr closed the door behind me, I turned in a slow circle to take in the new location.

The base of the tower was a single room in slate-grey metal, dull enough that the overhead yellow halogens didn't glare off of it uncomfortably, and smelling uncomfortably of metal. Computer stations lined the farthest wall, where more uniformed mutants were obviously working. Farther to the left was a metal staircase, obviously leading to the upper levels. Checking the height of the ceiling, I tried to estimate how many floors this had.

"Dear God." I bit my lip, but luckily, I'd spoken low enough that no one seemed to hear me. Reherr stopped at a computer terminal and the officer at it turned quickly, rising to salute. There was the slightest sheen of metal to his skin and the grey eyes owed more to metal than the actual color. I blinked a little—it wasn't unusual for me to see mutants. It was just damned unusual to see them like this, and openly at that.

"I need an ID for the young woman." The Captain waited as he nodded quickly at me and turned back to his computer, quickly beginning. "Send a message to Mr. Lensherr and Logan for the passcodes."

Logan.

_—Darlin', be careful.—_

Logan. I could go to Logan, get some answers. Obviously, he'd figure out what was—

_—Rogue, has it penetrated yet this isn't your world?—_

I froze, stock-still at Carol's acerbic tone of voice.

_—What?—_

_—This isn't your world. Therefore, the man who is currently in your head probably doesn't bear much resemblance to the man they just referred to as Logan. Walk carefully.—_

_—You know this is impossible, right?—_

Carol's voice was wry, and somewhere distant, Logan snorted, but not in protest.

_—Honey, when I was your age, I'd already seen a lot of things that were 'impossible'. Grow up and open your mind here. Assume that no one is going to be who you think they are and act accordingly.—_

I took a breath, letting it out slowly.

_—That's why you didn't let me give my name?—_

_—You got it, honey. Let's just hope I'm not anywhere close by. Or you, for that matter.—_

The weirdness was receding, ironically—I could honestly say it was probably Logan and Carol between them keeping back the panic that seriously wanted to do a number on me at that moment. They were the reason I leaned casually into the wall, acting—er, casual. Like this was normal.

_—Logan'll know my scent.—_

_—Then don't get close enough for him to pick it up.—_That was Logan. —_Range is fifteen feet or so on scent, depending on if the air is clear. Don't touch anything so you don't leave a trace.—_

I jerked up from the wall and got several sets of curious eyes for my trouble.

_—Sorta late now, darlin'.—_

Fuck you, Logan. The eyes still studied me, obviously wondering why on earth I was jumpy, and I shrugged it off, relaxing my body muscle by muscle.

"This gonna take long?"

The officer at the computer shrugged.

"About an hour to clear you for entrance to the School."

A quick glance around, then I gave them my best smile. I had an idea.

"Looks like I need to go shopping. Can someone show me where to go? And—Ah, where would I look someone up? Someone I, uh, wanted to find. I, um, lost track of her in the camps."

_—Looking for yourself now?—_

_—I don't wanna be unprepared here. If this is—well, anyway. Never hurts to see who I am.—_

"You lost someone in the camps?" Reherr asked sympathetically, the yellow eyes softening as I looked away. My stomach turned over and refused to right itself as I took in what that meant.

Camps.

"You can use the computer over there." She pointed and I crossed obediently to the station she indicated, to the far left of where she and the other officer were working. Hmmm. Normal enough. Good to go. I sat down and found a working database after familiarizing myself with the operating system. Not so strange.

_Rogue. Born—ah, here we—_

I blanked out as the information scrolling impersonally across the flat screen—though I suppose I should have expected it on some level, if for no other reason than that this day was already weird and it didn't seem to want to be looking up by much. Staring serenely back at me was my own face and a painfully short bio. Because nothing much was known about Rogue's life. I never had the chance here, apparently.

But Rogue's death at the top of the Statue of Liberty was documented in excruciating detail, detail gleaned from the memories of those who had watched her die. For her martyrdom to mutantkind, seven years before, when she willingly gave her life to change the world and the catalyst for the human/mutant war that led to—to _this_.

_—Please tell me I'm hallucinating this.—_

I studied my own serene face as if it was a stranger's, the full lips and soft face of the child I hadn't been in so long I'd almost forgotten her.

Rogue, Magneto's dream, this reality.

It was an act of God that I didn't throw up.

My first view of the school was disturbingly familiar—so disturbingly familiar, in fact, that I began to smile as I watched some of the younger kids play soccer outside to the left of the bulk of the Mansion proper and the clean lines of a well-kept front lawn. The driveway was scrubbed as clean as it was every week (my back remembered that chore), and I noted the statuary were neatly positioned in the exact right spots around the entrance. On benches outside I watched a few students linger, either alone with a good book or chatting in the late afternoon sun. Birds seemed to be singing on-key and the laughter and shouting of the students lifted toward me over the hum of the engine. All we needed to complete this mutant Hallmark card were frolicking deer.

I actually caught myself checking out the wooded slopes to the east and only wondered that Bambi hadn't made a personal appearance.

Three blinks didn't change what I saw. It was home. Reflexively, I squeezed the handle of my new bag, stuffed with the clothes I'd bought—and luckily, the guy assigned to pick me up and deliver my ID hadn't seen me before, so didn't comment on the short blonde hair that skimmed my chin. Nor did he pay particular attention to my gloves, which was disconcerting in its own way. I was used to people noticing.

_—Very chic, honey.—_

_—Yeah, yeah, yeah. I remember what you looked like. Let's both be really hopeful you stay away, 'kay?—_

_—Maybe I'm dead here too.—_

I shivered at the reminder, thinking of the little I'd gotten off the computer before Reherr had offered to take me somewhere to get more clothes. War. The war Magneto had predicted with Cassandra-esque regularity, that he had told us so many times would come to pass.

It was the strangest thing in the world, to look out on the grounds of the school and realize that this place had somehow survived the human/mutant war—a war that had never been more than vague theory to me before that screen had given, in clipped, bare lines, the history of a different world.

Salem Complex—internment camp for humans who had participated against mutantkind during the war. Simple, black-and-white, clean explanation that just didn't seem to relate to the reality of metal towers and long, twisting fences, the faces I'd seen from a distance as Reherr led me to a car. What scared me most of all—Salem Complex had a number.

It wasn't the first or only, even in New York.

I pulled my bag closer, wrapping my fingers into the strap again and almost forgetting that I could pull the bag apart without even noticing with my strength. To distract myself, I gave a glance to the young man beside me. A little tense for someone driving an automatic car, as if he was sure something was going to go very wrong if he took his attention off the road even for an instant. As he came to a stop in the wide mansion driveway, I tightened my grip on the bag and drew in a deep breath.

I could do this.

"Here's the school, ma'am."

Nodding shortly, I reached for the handle of the door, and the man with me nearly blanched. I jerked my hand back, wondering what I'd done. What on earth...

"Just a moment, ma'am." He flipped the car into park and turned off the ignition, and I hesitated, wondering what he was planning to do. What he did do was weird enough—scurrying around the front of the car as if he was trying for a medal in speed dodging, he pulled open my door, motioning respectfully for me to emerge now. For the first time, I noted he didn't carry weaponry or decoration, though the uniform was identical to that of the officers—and I saw the edge of blue/black again below the wide cuff as he shut the door behind me, a blur on his wrist.

Before I could think better of it, I caught his arm and turned his palm toward me, pushing the sleeve back.

"You're human," I whispered, but I supposed I should have guessed that immediately. What I didn't expect was the blue tattoo across his inner wrist. Twelve numbers over a thin white scar, and my fingertips, even through the leather gloves, could catch the change in texture beneath the skin. Implant—maybe a chip.

I supposed, through the haze of shock, that Magneto had a certain sense of poetic justice.

"Y-y-y-yes, ma'am." Poor kid, no idea what to do, how to do it. I wanted to shake him and then touch his shoulder and tell him something comforting. Though what I would say—fuck if I knew. This was human-hell, sort of.

"Okay." And I freed his arm, feeling his fear at my touch, my interest. "Umm...are you taking me to Magneto?"

His eyes widened, and I suspected it was because of the name I used. Erik Lensherr. Use Erik Lensherr.

"Mr. Lensherr is waiting. Yes, I'm—I'm supposed to take you." Taking my abandoned bag from the ground, he motioned me to precede him—which logically, since I had no idea where to go, I could not do. For a second, there was a stalemate and our eyes met before he pushed his gaze downward to focus on my shoes, an act of blatant submission.

It made me sick.

"I'll follow you," I told him, watching his face. He still looked uncertain, but either my rank or simple common sense took over, and, with half a wary eye on me, he began to walk toward the Mansion. Distantly, I saw people emerge from the garage, but it took a moment to register the identity of the one laughing—the ash-blonde hair was longer and the once-bulky body had been sheared down to pure muscle barely covering heavy bones. Older too, in a way that had nothing to do with chronology but seemed to settle in the scar over his eye.

It was Bobby and my entire world stopped revolving. Just—boom. All stop.

Blue eyes, a mess of dirty-blonde hair, with a smear of grease arrowing across his forehead and into his hairline—I'd know him anywhere, anytime. Distantly, I heard the boy say something to me, but my focus was on my former lover and friend, whose eyes had met mine over the few feet of driveway that separated us.

_—Uh-uh. Cool it, honey. That's not your Bobby. You aren't Rogue. You're new mutant Marie Danvers.—_

Before I could recover from the shock, Bobby was approaching me with a quickened step—his gaze swept right over the boy with me, instead coming to rest on my face. A faint shadow crossed the clear blue eyes and I stiffened.

_—He recognizes me!—_

_—He'll put it down to deja vu. Just don't break. Don't, Rogue. We don't have any idea about these people. You saw the fences, you know the reps, you shopped with people that stank of fear. Don't break.—_

Shit, I didn't want to think of the mall again—the abandoned stores and the utter echoing silence of the hub of Salem's teenage social life, the surreptitious, frightened gazes on me as I stumbled into the first store I could find, my purchases made on the credit card Captain Reherr gave me before she left me there to sink or swim at my leisure. The clerk had rang my purchases up so quickly I'd wondered if there was a time limit I didn't know about, and a boy had been on-hand to carry the two bags outside for me before I'd finished scrawling my name across the credit card slip.

"Hi," he said slowly, and Bobby was never stupid. Never. A golden-tanned hand extended and I placed my gloved hand in his, feeling that spark of heat again—remembering long nights on the porch swing where we'd talked about everything and nothing at all. "You're new?"

"Yeah. Marie Danvers." I shook his hand firmly and the long fingers clung to mine. Yet his memories of me would have ended with that classroom, with that night when he hovered outside Logan's room and I almost committed my first kill by sheer accident. I had to remember that. Had to. Slowly, I withdrew. "And you are...?"

"Oh, sorry." His smile lit up his whole face and my breath caught again. "Bobby Drake. Nice to meet you." He gave the boy with me a dismissive nod. "I'll take her to Mr. Lensherr." With another smile at me, he freed my hand, taking the bag the boy mutely extended and turning his back as if he didn't exist. "Is he expecting you?"

"Yeah. They called in from Salem C-omplex." Not Center. Complex. With chain link fences and razor wire and people who wore guns and uniforms. Complex. Come to think of it, not hard to remember at all.

Bobby nodded in agreement.

"Bobby!"

I knew that voice. Long days outside playing basketball, from the time that he showed me how to assemble bombs in the lab or the many times he'd sat with me after my personality episodes. He'd sent Logan after me when I ran away.

St. John Allerdyce, slim and quick and far, far too observant. He came to a dead stop in front of me, almost skidding on the pavement, when his eyes rested on my face.

_—Uh-oh.—_

I didn't like it when Carol said uh-oh.

_—Something you're not telling me, sugar?—_

_—Not exactly—_

"...Marie Danvers," Bobby was saying. "Marie, this is St. John Allerdyce, our resident pyrokinetic. Say hi, John." A careless grin thrown at me, his usual expression when dealing with Johnny. "Usually, he's much nicer."

"Hey, Marie." A pause. "Scott wants you in the garage, Bobby. You left the engine without some seriously key components."

"Shit." A quick, worried glance at me, then he turned the full power of those liquid eyes on Johnny—and just as in my world, Johnny almost melted. Sort of fun to watch. "Can you take her to Lensherr? He's expecting her."

Slowly, the clear eyes turned on me. Looking me up and down, narrowing slightly on the chain around my neck, the ID I'd almost forgotten I was wearing.

_—Carol, I don't like this. What the hell is—oh FUCK you were with him before he came to the school, weren't you?—_ Shit, I'd forgotten all about that. St. John had never brought it up, though I'd known he had a past with her. I'd never pushed about it, though. Never. Mutant trauma was too common, and it was an unspoken rule that we left whatever skeletons lingered in the mental closets happily concealed.

_—Yeah, honey, chill. You're Marie Danvers, not Carol. You could be my sister.—_

_—You don't have a sister.—_

_—And how would they know? Honey, this is postwar. Computer files were destroyed, mutants were scattered—they're still piecing together the files from the death camps. For all anyone knows, you are exactly who you say you are.—_

"...that's okay, Marie?"

In my world, I'd never told Bobby my name, even when I'd moaned in bed with him. How—wrong it seemed, to hear it now.

"Sure," I said, smiling brightly.

_—It's not the Danvers part—he's got that look that Bobby had. He feels something is off.—_

_—Just be cool, honey. Play it very, very cool. Seriously—these people think you're dead. They aren't going to suspect anything unless you start freaking out.—_

I swallowed in a dry throat and Johnny's hand hesitated over my wrists.

"Gloves?"

"Yes," I answered briefly, forestalling the questions in his eyes. "St—John, right?"

"St. John Allerdyce, at your service." A slightly self-mocking half-bow, before he straightened. There was a wariness in him—but he was so much the same. Edges of cynicism in his voice, the slow grace of his movements, the vicious control he placed over himself. I knew it all, knew him so well—and yet, I didn't know him at all. Here, anyway. "Danvers?"

"Yes." Keep close to the truth. Close, close, close. "My—my sister died in the camps."

"Carol." His mouth tightened, spitting out the name like a bad piece of meat.

_—What the fuck did you do to him?—_

_—I was very young, Rogue. Go sort the memories if you wanna find out.—_

I'd better—this wasn't looking too good. I'd never felt Carol defensive before.

"Yeah." I shifted a little, trying to think of something to say. "Nice place you have here."

_—Lame, darlin'.—_

_—Carol in a huff?—_

Logan's inner smirk made me grin.

"I like it." He nodded toward a group of students watching us from a distance. "I knew your sister." He was still edged, voice tight, and I flicked him a glance from the corner of my eyes to check his expression.

_—Shit, Carol, what the fuck did you do to him?—_

No answer. Damn her.

"Really?" I tried to keep my voice from betraying me and jumping into canine highness. "She left home when I was very young. I—I found her in the camps, but—"

_—You don't know anything about the camps. You gotta find someone to absorb and fast, darlin'—_

And how many ways did I not want to do that. Let me count them.

"I'm sorry." He didn't sound too sorry. The flat satisfaction in his voice startled me. Carol too, apparently.

_—I never did anything to merit that.—_

_—Really?—_

_—I took care of him.—_A pause. Then she was gone and Johnny was watching me—no, St. John was watching me. Different boy, different life. When he walked, there was the lightest trace of a limp, something I probably wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been trying so hard to avoid his eyes.

"I didn't know her very well." I struggled, trying to think of something to say. "You live here?"

_—Stupid question.—_

_—Help me out then.—_

"Yeah, for most of my life." He pushed the front door open, gesturing for me to precede him. My back itched when he was behind me and I paused and turned as he shut the door. "I'll show you to Mr. Lensherr's office."

Magneto's office. As we walked toward the stairs, I tried to keep calm, though my skin was crawling. This felt—so normal. Like home. Except Magneto was in Xavier's office and ran the school, if the direction was right. Which was all kinds of wrong, on every level. What the hell had happened to Xavier? Where was he?

There was an obvious answer, of course. One I was avoiding thinking about, because it hurt.

"Here we are." St. John tapped on the door—metal door—and it slid open, revealing an office very much like Xavier's. In fact—

—in point of fact it was almost exactly as I had seen it before I left the Mansion that morning. Exactly. The dark wood of the desk was polished to a muted gloss, the green lamp on the corner that precise one inch from the edge. Neat stacks of files on the other corner, and a black pen seated by blank pad just in reach of the antique leather chair. With a breath, though, everything shifted again—Xavier's scent was warm and inviting, wrapped in cinnamon and cloves and the cigars he'd sometimes enjoyed with Logan, the red wine he shared with Jean.

This room was as sterile as polished metal, and I breathed out abruptly before I choked on the feel of it in my lungs.

"God," I whispered, and St. John jerked, turning to look at me with a thoughtful frown. The chair was empty, but I could see a shape beside the window, and a flicker of a hand brought the lamp alight.

Erik Lensherr looked back at me with a slight smile that seemed to strip straight through my body and look into my head. The last time I'd seen him, his hands were closing around my face as he told me he was sorry.

He'd lied, of course. When his mind raped mine, I'd seen that he wasn't sorry at all. Thinner, the lines of old scars bisecting the left side of his face from temple to jaw. Shorter hair and a strange fluidity of movement that seemed too carefully cultivated to be natural. With perfect ease, he extended a hand for mine, shaking it lightly, and it took everything in me not to jerk away.

"Hello, Ms Danvers," he said in his low, cultured voice, the edges sharper than a native speaker of English, but softened since the last time I'd heard his voice. "Welcome to Xavier's School for Gifted Children."

I never knew how I got through that interview.

He didn't comment on my gloves, motioning me to sit in the overstuffed armchair that I could remember sitting in hundreds of times before in Xavier's office. He asked me questions, and Carol reemerged to help me answer, though the hostility level in her was still pretty high. My family, my life before, the camps. He took my reticence as normal trauma from my experiences and smiled when he touched my shoulder and gave me a key to my room. Then he touched the intercom, speaking to someone outside, and in a few minutes, a young girl appeared.

The fear scent was familiar now, almost normal, and for some reason, that made me as sick as the trail of numbers on her inner arm. Numbly, I followed her down the hall to the bedroom—ironically, my former room—and realized she had my bag when she placed it on the bed.

"What's your name?" I asked. The girl jumped a little, turning to face me, and for the first time I got a good look at her. Dark hair...delicate chin...blue-black bruising around dark green eyes.

I winced and she stood so still—how the hell could anyone be so motionless? But the answer occurred to me with sickening ease—don't draw attention to yourself. Be still, and maybe they won't notice. Maybe they won't—

—God, what did they do to her here?

"Sarah." Barely a whisper.

I nodded encouragingly.

"Thank you, Sarah." She bobbed her head and quickly turned to leave. The door opened as she reached for it, and she drew back with a start as St. John walked in.

"Get out." The slightest jerk of his head, and the girl retreated quickly, sidling by him as if he were poison to touch. Shit. Slowly, I sat down on the edge of the bed and began to open my bag, wondering who my roommate was. Casually, St. John leaned against the doorway.

"Kitty, you roommate, is on assignment, so Lensherr assigned me to be your guide." His eyes swept over me, freezing on my face again. And Johnny wasn't Bobby Drake, handsome and careless and absentminded and open as all hell for anyone to read. Behind those blue eyes was a sharp mind and observational skills that were a byword at the school.

"Great." I absently raised a hand to run through my hair, remembering at the last second to be careful not to dislodge the wig. This wouldn't last. I'd need to cut and dye my hair. If I was here that long.

And God, I didn't want to be. Oh, I so didn't want to be here any longer than absolutely necessary.

"You remind me of someone." He waited for a moment as I assimilated what he said.

_—Careful.—_Carol was lurking behind my eyes, watching this bizarre interview with a strange intensity. I shivered at the emotion I got off her—anger, dislike, frustration, but also—affection, maybe. —_Johnny has a good memory and excellent deductive skills. Be very careful.—_

_—You said it yourself, I'm dead here.—_ The reminder gave me the serious willies too, and I shoved the thought clear of my head, letting it nestle somewhere that it couldn't bother me.

_—He spent time with me, honey. Nothing about that boy is stupid.—_

I regarded St. John carefully. Cropped blonde hair, no scars, no real differences I could see between the St. John of my world and the man in front of me. Always staying out of the limelight, letting the rest of us take a turn on the stage as Center of Attention. He never wanted to be the least bit out of control.

"Really?" I paused, frowning as if in thought. "I look like my sister, I guess."

No response. Then he nodded, almost as if he'd made a decision, but I didn't think he believed that it was resemblance to Carol. It was all over his face—he'd be thinking about this, thinking, thinking, thinking. Shit.

"Come with me and I'll show you around." A slight smile. "You probably want to see her monument, right?"

Now why did that make me think he wasn't talking about Carol?

"Who?"

A slight frown pulled his eyebrows sharply together, and his eyes turned to the window briefly, before darting back to me.

"Her monument—the one for Rogue."

It was God-given luck that St. John was called away right before we got to the cemetery, because otherwise, everything would have been given up right then and there. I walked in alone.

The cemetery itself was a new addition, at least to me—though I remembered Xavier once mentioning that his will stated he was to be buried on the grounds, and I could vaguely recall Scott and Jean looking over the layout of the school with grim expressions. Our line of business, after all, did not cater to a long life. Scott, of all the things he was and wasn't, was a Boy Scout through and through—always be prepared. To the far left of the soccer field—that was right, that's what Scott had chosen, surrounded by lush forest and the slight elevation made it a perfect place for a good view of the grounds. As I slowly passed the wrought-iron gate and onto the freshly manicured grass, I braced myself for what I'd see.

There were a number of graves scattered hither and yon, beautifully well-tended on finely manicured grass, surrounded by expensive shrubbery neatly trimmed, but one held my absolute attention from the first. I came to a slow stop before the hideously overdone tomb, staring in blank, unbelieving shock at the statue that had my face. _My_ face.

Okay, so I was dead. Abstract, had seen it on a computer, had seen the people who lived here that had never know Rogue. Got that. Saw Erik in Xavier's office. Saw—things. Saw razor wire and heard rumors. Yeah.

_—Darlin'? You okay?—_

None of it had prepared me to see this.

_—Marie?—_

I couldn't even answer. Slowly, I reached out to touch the girl that I hadn't been in seven years. No, cut that. The girl I had never been at all. She'd died, I hadn't. She'd received a monument—a fucking _monument_—and there seemed to be an inscription that I was damn sure I shouldn't read.

_—Marie, walk away.—_

My feet wouldn't move. I felt Logan strengthen in my mind and—how odd—Carol was helping.

_—Marie, move. Get away from that.—_

They buried me here. There was a statue. And things. Flowers. Cut flowers were rotting all around my feet, the smell sickly sweet, more fresh flowers piled up everywhere. People came here to leave flowers.

_—Marie—_

_—Are you seeing this?—_

A pause.

_—It's not you.—_

_—Sure as fuck looks like me.—_ Long hair carved back from my face, and I looked serene. Is this what they thought I'd looked like up there? I remembered screaming and crying and praying and wishing and screaming again when I'd felt as if my organs were being sucked out through my skin—but I didn't remember being serene.

_—Darlin', get away. Come on.—_

_—No, I wanna see this. This is how you build a mystery, sugar. How you build a cult. How you build a lie. See it? See? Read that inscription. Look at it.—_

My knees hit the dirt and I braced both hands over the little marble slab at the base of the statue, staring at it.

"Rogue. Savior of mutantkind." I felt my throat close over. "It's easy—all you have to do is die before you can tell your side. Look at what they did."

_—I see it, darlin'.— _His voice was gentle.

"Look what they did!" I punched down at the unyielding marble, but my aim was off and I sank wrist deep through healthy green grass into dry dirt. Panic bubbled up under my skin like boils, ready to break at the slightest touch—and Logan and Carol couldn't help me now. Bracing a gloved hand on the marble, I leaned back to pull my hand free, trying to catch my breath. They took away my death. Not only was I dead, they made it into this.

Dear God. This was _wrong_.

_—It's not you, darlin'.—_

_—Check out the statue, sugar. It's so me. Even got my lips right. I never looked that good in real life.—_ I never looked that calm in real life, either, that was for certain. Never looked so peaceful. Never looked—

_—Come on, Marie. Let's go. There's no reason for you to see this.—_

Really? I snorted softly, unable to draw my eyes away from the face looking down at me.

_—Savior of mutantkind. Did you read that? Did you READ that piece of crap? I wasn't asked to die for anything up there—I was strapped into that machine. My mind was raped. I don't remember being willing—I just remember being scared. And not wanting to die. I was a thousand feet alone above the earth with an egomaniac who wanted to change the world and wanted me to die for something I could never believe in. I didn't want to die, Logan. I didn't.—_

_—Marie, baby, this isn't you. We don't know what happened here.—_

What was worse—that I'd died here and they'd lied, or that I'd died here and this was the truth? What kind of person had I _been_? My breath was coming too fast, my eyesight tunneling close and black—nothing but statue's face visible, nothing but that chilly serenity of the martyrdom I'd never wanted. I gasped, trying to get a clean breath.

_—You're hyperventilating.—_ Sharp, in my head. —_SIT UP MARIE.—_

Two people in my life were allowed to use that tone with me, Scott and Logan. And only one of them could get instant obedience. I automatically snapped straight, hands resting on my thighs, seven years of conditioning asserting itself in that moment. He'd trained me well.

_—Close your eyes.—_

I stared into my eyelids as Logan pushed his way fully into my consciousness, ripping away my control. For a second, I fought him—then Carol's presence was supporting him, and there was something vaguely startling about these two inner personalities working together. As if from a distance, I heard my breathing begin to even out, and Logan eased me back into my body, cushioning the shift. Gently, so gently, he withdrew back in and I opened my eyes, once again in control.

I wasn't in front of the monument anymore, but facing the school, just visible through the iron gate. Wow. I hadn't even known they could _do_ that.

_—Logan?—_

_—You don't go back there. You don't need to see that.—_Adamant, but something else beneath too. A trace of—pain? Oh God—yes, I understood. He'd just seen his own failure: what could have happened that long ago night. Instantly, the images rushed through my mind—a view of me on the Statue of Liberty, slumped against the metal posts, and the flash of his claws cutting me free, cradling me and praying for my skin to work.

All fear and anger and a terrible sinking helplessness that was worse than anything else.

_—I won't. I-I'm sorry, sugar.—_

_—No reason to be.— _Crisp, business-like. —_Okay, find someone who won't be missed and get it done. Find someone, touch them. We can't afford to wait.—_

Logan—pragmatic as all hell. I paused as I emerged from the cemetery, looking at the milling students in the distance, pushing back everything else into a corner of my mind. Hank could tell me that I needed to deal with my emotions—screw that. I had to be repression-girl.

_—Logan, I can't just grab one of them. Someone'll notice. Shit, they'll notice.—_

Inside me, Carol and Logan both paused, thinking.

_—Kid, you're not here. They probably don't have any energy absorbers anymore. Find someone, knock 'em out, take what you need. They wake up thinkin' they hit their head. Easy as pie.—_

Ooh—I hadn't thought of that.

_—So I find anyone...—_

_—No.—_Carol now, voice sharp. —_Not anyone. Someone who was in the war, in the camps, and is here. It'll have to be a mutant.—_

_—Johnny.—_

Carol paused inside me and I felt a strange mishmash of conflict, her memories abruptly flooding my mind, and through it all, thirteen year old Johnny Allerdyce looked back at me from shadowed blue eyes. I drew in a breath and snapped my discipline into place, stemming the flow. I needed to explore her memories soon.

_—Don't hurt him.—_

_—I won't.—_

"Hey. Johnny said you'd be here" It was Bobby—showered and looking pretty damn good. And despite everything else, I _was_ a woman and that was _definitely_ a man. He paused as I came out of the cemetery gate, eyes alighting me, concern wiping away his welcoming smile. "You okay?"

I blinked a little, readjusting to outer-world convos.

"Yeah. Just—just tired." I tried to smile, lips twitching. He shook his head, reaching for my arm, too close to my skin. Instantly, I jerked away and the blue eyes widened.

_—Oh fuck.—_

"Sorry," I said softly. I needed an explanation. Think, think... "I don't like to be touched." I tried to think of a reason, but the blue eyes instantly turned sympathetic and I blinked.

_—Don't say anything else. Camps, Rogue. What happened during the war to mutants in those camps.—_

Oh, I could guess. I could guess big time. Pushing away another spurt of nausea, I drew in a deep breath. Before humans were locked up, mutants had been. I didn't need to know more than that to guess.

"I'm sorry." So kind, so like the Bobby I knew. "Norm bastards."

I froze, but Bobby was already looking back at the school, eyes narrowing in thought.

_—He said...he said...—_

_—Yes, he did, honey. Calm down. You have your excuse for the gloves and not wanting to be touched. Don't elaborate, don't talk about it. They don't expect you to, they think they already know. Keep it simple.—_

"...and dinner's being served in the dining room, if you're up for it." The warm blue eyes met mine, a smile lighting his face. Bobby had always been one to go for the girls with broken wings—some sort of weird seventh sense that drew him like a moth to a flame. I'd always known that.

Dining room. A chill ran down my spine even as I smiled.

_—Dining room? Help me out here.—_

_—Go. Do it. Just keep away from Logan.—_ Carol's voice was sharp.

_—What are the chances he'd recognize my scent after seven years? I mean, like you said, I'm...dead.—_ Ouchies. I'd need to do something about that.

_—Darlin', I never forget a scent. Ever. I'd know you anywhere, anytime.—_

_—You. Not him.—_

_—Why the hell do you want to test that theory?—_

Ooh. Good point. I nodded slowly and Bobby's smile widened, falling neatly in step beside me.

"I'll introduce you around—maybe Kitty's back, your roommate. Did Johnny finish up the tour?"

"He was called away," I answered absently as we began to walk back toward the Mansion. "It's—a nice place you have here." Nice. Everything was nice, apparently. I had to upgrade my vocabulary soon.

"Yeah." Bobby looked around fondly. "This isn't the original house, but Scott built it from the original plans."

Whoa doggies. It's _not_ the original? I looked up, as if the house would suddenly manifest startling differences for me to identify the changes with, but there was nothing different that I could see. Even the ivy was covering the correct parts of the wall.

"What happened to it?" Oh, obvious, dimwit. It got blown up during the war. Bobby's face darkened a little in memory and I averted my eyes, fixing them on the carpet-smooth grass in front of my feet.

"It was the first casualty—the opening salvo of the war." No, I hadn't known, and that was interesting.

_—Better keep my Canadian citizenship.—_

_—You have citizenship?—_

Logan's voice was amused.

_—Yeah, baby. Several, actually.—_

_—Several Canadian citizenships? Why would...—_

_—Several different citizenships, Marie, not necessarily Canadian. Just—in case I need to disappear.—_

Oh. Okay. Logical.

"Were you—were you—" I took a breath. This would be a good time to start finding out information. But my voice choked a little—did mutants talk about it amongst themselves? Was this a taboo topic? Luckily, Bobby was Bobby, open and honest as hell.

"Yeah. I—was turned in early on." He paused, eyes going down, and I made a sympathetic noise of some sort. Bobby. My Bobby in that thing. "My own fault."

"None of it was your fault."

The smile returned—a little sad, a little amused.

"Yeah, maybe." He shrugged. "Anyway, when the war was over, Scott rebuilt the school using the original plans. The Professor would have wanted it that way. Everything's the same, inside. We wanted—wanted to make sure we remembered."

They sure as hell had succeeded. Big time. I fixed my gaze on the Mansion, searching for a clue like I was picking at a scab. Did it look a little closer to those trees? Was the porch longer? I stared at it, trying to get a feel for the differences, so that I totally missed St. John's advent, almost directly in front of me.

"Oh!" I skidded to a stop, and St. John tilted his head to study me. "S-s-sorry there, su-orry." Did I almost say sugar? Did I? DID I?

_—Has anyone told you that you're paranoid recently?—_

_—Shut up, Carol.—_

"S'okay." The sharp eyes followed my movements before they resettled on Bobby, warming instantly. "You ready to eat?"

"Sure." Bobby gave me a fond look. "Marie's gonna join us. Right?"

"Uh-huh." I gave Johnny a weak smile. "It's—gonna be interesting."

Interesting wouldn't begin to describe it.

"Can you pass the mashed potatoes?"

I was pretty sure that was a repeated request, since the girl's voice had taken on that griping tone, and I struggled to grab them, passing them down to Johnny, who handed them off in between bites of steak, as I tried to tear my attention from the head table.

Head table.

Big Visible Change here—at Xavier's school, I didn't remember there being a head table. There was, granted, a _teacher's_ table. Sort of off to the side, where the X-Men and teachers would eat together. Sort of. On formal occasions, they wouldn't be in the dining hall at all, but in Xavier's private dining room, and that was _only_ used for those kinds of occasions. Xavier had encouraged family, familiarity, friendship, equality between the mutants and occasional human student.

You can't put fifteen people on a dais and say there's equality there, even if the slightly ornate chairs that had once graced only the dining room hadn't surrounded the formal table. Well, more than fifteen—Bobby and Johnny usually sat up there, apparently, but chose to sit with me today. Uh-huh. Fifteen people and I recognized only a few—Jean, Scott, Warren, Lensherr, Ororo—Remy? I blinked. Remy. Okay. Kitty on the end, apparently back from her mission, talking quietly to Scott. Trying not to look too obvious, I twisted a little, trying to get a better view of the changes an alternate timeline brings. Scott's hair was slightly longer, the rich brown sunstreaked—not such a huge jump. My angle made it impossible to catch Ororo's or Jean's faces, and I resigned myself to stalking them later to get a view. Remy was Remy—charming, careless, and if he seemed a little faster, a little more jerky in his movements, that could mean anything.

There were a few others I vaguely knew from school, and a frighteningly sharp-eyed Asian woman who moved far too smoothly and whose eyes constantly scanned the crowd. I knew her—new arrival, only a few weeks before at home. Betsy. Telepath. Not exactly Miss Ethics, though I supposed she was nice enough as telepaths went.

Her eyes met mine and I jerked my gaze down, fixing them on my mashed potatoes. The power behind those dark eyes shook me—I'd never seen a telepath before that flaunted her skill so openly.

_—Marie. Watch it.—_

The warning hit the second I felt the touch. I didn't move, didn't breathe for a few long seconds and then—there it was, a slim, cool tendril of probing thought, reaching deep into my mind. Looking casually through, and finding nada. Because she wasn't aware of what being an energy absorber was, of course—Jean had learned how to break that particular characteristic somewhat and find me inside my own head and also taught me to build shields to defend myself against other telepaths, a slow, step-by-step process that had often left me mentally exhausted and hating her.

I loved her now. Passionately and utterly, and did I owe her. Oh God, did I owe her. I felt a trace of shock as Betsy tried to sort through the confusion and slammed my shields down into place, feeling her withdraw hastily. Then I took a bite of green beans and chewed with gusto, feeling her eyes rest on me briefly before turning away. I didn't dare look up to see her reaction, though I felt, just surrounding me, a startled suspicion that lingered like a bad odor.

_—You know, if you wanted to say, stay the hell outta my head, you could have been a lot less obvious about it and just yelled it in the middle of the dining hall. Every telepath in this room probably felt you do that.—_

The cross between anger and amusement in Logan's voice startled me.

_—Ethical telepaths don't wander around in other people's minds without permission or cause.—_

_—And yet, you persist in thinking' that ethics are a big thing here, huh? Shit, Marie, get with the program. This is NOT Xavier's school and these people developed a shitload differently than we did. Maybe you'd better find out how the hell they are different before you screw around too much.—_

I nodded to myself, finding my knife with one trembling hand and cutting into my steak. Bobby was talking across the table to Johnny. They'd never been particularly sensitive to psi-use.

_—I wonder...—_I promptly forgot what I was wondering when the far door open and Logan walked through.

Things that stayed the same—still jeans and flannel, still tall and brooding and looking like he wanted to fight someone just for kicks. Nicely familiar scowl, standard expression, no problems there. The brown hair was cropped shorter than I could ever remember him wearing it, though—vaguely military, stirring traces of Inner Logan's memories from the far recesses of my mind. For some reason, the sharp cut made the scowl look even more menacing, especially with the sideburns trimmed down to bare dark shadows—shit, Jubilee and Kits would be going into fits of laughter to see this at home.

The reactions to him, however, were totally off the scale—the students nearest him grew quiet and I smelled it again—the trace of fear streaming through the room. Logan scared students, granted. He always had. But it wasn't out and out fear, not since the beginning. They _knew_ him, knew that Logan would die before he hurt any of them. They were his students, some were his friends, and he'd drunk with them and talked to them and played basketball with them and fixed cars with them.

The trail of fear, of awe, of—of things I couldn't even identify. And Logan, at the school, usually played down that part of himself. The part that _wasn't_ the X-Man and teacher—the part that was pure predator. He wasn't even trying here—he was a living, breathing weapon who didn't give a shit.

I stared in fascination as he crossed the room, stopping to speak to Jean before taking the empty chair on her other side beside Kitty. Scott was leaning over, making a comment, and Logan grinned, before attacking the plate that was almost instantly placed before him.

"Told ya, Drake."

"Huh?" The amusement in Johnny's voice was bitter, and I turned my gaze to see Bobby was frowning slightly.

"Shut up, Pyro."

It was so characteristic I sighed, and both looked at me as if they'd forgotten I was there, which wouldn't have been that unusual at home; Bobby and St. John had often seemed to inhabit a snarky little universe all of their own.

"Umm—guys?" I tapped my fork on my plate for emphasis. "Anything I need to know?"

"Oh, nothing." St. John reached for a piece of bread, spreading it with butter from the dish at his elbow. He was still grinning at Bobby. "Just normal reaction to Logan." His gaze stabbed mine. "Don't drool so openly. He can smell that out."

Oh yes, the smell thing. Shit. I tried to measure the distance between the main table and me, but my math wasn't coming anywhere near my functional head.

_—Relax. In this mess, he'd never notice.—_ Logan's voice was oddly quiet. —_You should be okay here. He'd have to be specifically searching for you to track you in here. And that's unlikely.—_

I tried to remember if I'd touched anything nearby but the table.

_—You sure?—_

_—All kinds of sure, baby. Relax. Eat. And see what you can fish outta the boys there. Drake's droolin' over you. Never understand what you saw in him.—_

_—He's hot.—_

_—He let you walk all over him like a used carpet.—_ Logan snorted. —_You have lousy taste in men, Marie.—_

Yeah, well, my first choice hadn't been too interested, either, so screw you, Logan. I buried the thought—Inner Logan was just a little too strong and we'd had this argument early on, anyway. I wasn't particularly interested in re-examining it. The brussels sprouts on my plate took my attention, but looking down, I could only see the image of Logan, eating up on the dais.

He thought I was dead. Ooh, don't think about that. No reason to give myself even _more_ complexes than I was enjoying already.

"I'd avoid him."

I jerked my gaze to Bobby, whose blue eyes were fixed on me with a familiarity that was oddly comforting—Bobby had never been a big fan of Logan, but the reason for that could be spelled with five letters. R-O-G-U-E. He knew before I did that I wasn't moving on with him, just marking time.

"Huh?"

Bobby shrugged.

"Not a good idea, Marie. He's not—a nice guy."

I frowned a little and St. John leaned across the table. His expression was deadly serious.

"That's not fair, Drake." Pushing his plate aside, St. John rested both arms on the table and gave us both a steady glare. "He saved your life—hell, it was him and Hank who got us out of that hellhole in Chicago."

Bobby flushed dark.

"I'm not saying—"

"You are saying." This seemed to be an old argument and I tried to sink a little into my chair. They were telling me things, important things I needed to know. And those things were about Logan. "Look, get over it, okay? He's paid his dues and more than either of us did. So feel oh-so-free to keep your mouth shut." With that, St. John got to his feet, grabbing his plate, and stormed from the table.

And a lot of eyes were fixed on us. Shit. Shit, shit, shit—attention drawn. Oh goodie.

_—Damn.—_

_—Yeah, Logan, I'm not so pleased either. They're looking at me.—_

I forced my gaze back to the vegetables, perfectly aware that I wouldn't be able to choke down another bite. Beside me, Bobby hadn't moved, hadn't even breathed.

"Sorry, Marie."

I gave him a quick, sidelong look.

"It's okay, s—Bobby." DAMN. Gotta avoid sugar. Gotta avoid sugar. Gotta avoid....

"You hungry?"

Bobby's plate was empty—mine was still half full, but I pushed my chair back in relief, feeling the curious gazes again. I had to get out of here before those at the big table took any more interest in me than they already had.

"No." I paused, seeing the curious eyes. I was new—that alone would bring some interest. People would want to meet me. And—things would happen. I knew I'd slip, somehow, give something away. And Logan and Carol in my head were absolutely convinced that nothing good could come of anyone finding out my actual identity, even if they believed me.

I had to agree. Every instinct in my body was saying the same thing.

Luckily, Bobby acted true to form—rising, he stepped back, allowing me to precede him toward the door. Once outside and in the hall, his smile was kind.

"Overwhelming?"

I nodded mutely. That worked for an interpretation.

"I—I'm not used to it, you know." I paused, twisting my hands together a little and Bobby brushed my covered shoulder. I didn't need to fake the stiffening of my body.

"Yeah." He glanced around, then seemed to come to a decision. Thank God—I sure as hell couldn't think. "Hey, how about we take a walk in the gardens? There's no one out there now. And Dr. Grey will be able to find us when she's ready."

"Ready for what?"

Bobby shrugged a little and began the trek to the wide French doors that led to the garden.

"You know—identification, classification, medical exam, the whole works."

Medical exam.

_—Logan, I won't make it through that.—_

_—No, I don't think it's a good idea, either.—_

How brilliant he could be.

_—If she runs a genetic test, she's gonna be awfully surprised, you know. If they have their old files, they still have my original from when I entered the school.—_

_—If it wasn't destroyed.—_

I paused at that.

_—She's a doctor and a researcher and twice as smart as me and you put together. Even if she doesn't know why, she gets the DNA, she'll recognize it from somewhere. And one touch will be enough to convince her that I'm not what I say.—_

_—Okay. We'll think of somethin'—_

"Marie?"

I jerked back into the present and realized we were outside. Shit, I _had_ to learn to get the weirdness under control, and damned soon. These inner convos were screwing with the real world too much.

"Sorry."

He smiled sympathetically and gestured for me to precede him off the stone-paved patio and into the garden proper.

"Ororo created these." He looked around fondly as he led me toward a secluded bench. Oh yes, subtlety there. "They're almost exactly the same as they were before the war." I nodded—he was right. Except—except the pansies hadn't been on the east side. There had been three benches, not four. That willow was younger than the one that had been in the garden. And—and—I frowned, trying to work it out.

It _was_ the same, with those tiny differences. Without even meaning to, I reached out to the roses beside the bench, the special hybrid that the Professor's family had bred over generations, and ran a light finger over the velvet-smooth petals.

I could remember trimming this bush in my world.

It was like a constant state of deja vu. Not as much fun as it sounded.

"They're beautiful," I answered honestly, wrapping my arms around my chest—June evenings in Westchester had always been cool, rich with the scent of flowers and the evergreens that grew only a few hundred feet away. Bobby was a cool, solid presence beside me, and he left me my space for a few minutes while I started assimilating what I'd learned.

"Tell me about Rogue."

_—WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?—_

I winced, grabbing at my head carefully—so Logan wasn't on board with this plan. Keeping my gaze on the flowers, I watched for Bobby's reaction from the corner of my eye.

For an entire ten seconds, there was nothing. Blank shock—what, did they not talk about her openly? They built a nice, gaudy memorial for her and people took flowers there, but—

"I didn't know her very well."

Memory descended; I was in the classroom and he was giving me an ice-rose. I was walking with him to my room. I was on my first date with him and he kissed my cheek through my scarf. I was shopping with Jean for a bodysuit and she was prescribing me birth control, just in case. We were fighting in the rec room downstairs, and he was walking out on me without a backwards glance—telling me to get my ass outta my fantasy life because no one could be expected to compete with the fairy-tales I created in my head. And he'd be damned if he'd try anymore.

Bobby was my first lover and I was his. I shut my eyes tightly. But he didn't know me.

"You saw the memorial, right?"

I sucked in a breath, nodding, not trusting myself to speak.

"She—Mr. Lensherr needed her, for his machine. She...she was only sixteen, you know? But she went up on the Statue because she knew—she knew it was the only way." Bobby's voice was soft. "She was brave, Marie. No one knew if it would work, but she was willing, you know, to try?"

My throat began to close.

_—He believes what he's saying.—_

_—We don't know what happened here, Rogue.—_

My eyes burned. I couldn't imagine any version of myself climbing into that hellish thing willingly.

_—How could he not know the truth? I mean—if it is the truth.—_ I could accept some things, but the idea of being willing wasn't one of them. I couldn't have been. I'd never been that suicidal, even during my darkest moments, and of all the ways I could choose to die, that one wouldn't have rated among the top fifty in any universe.

_—Here's a better question—how could he? Who, specifically, would know about what happened that night on the Statue of Liberty?—_

I breathed out, hearing Bobby still talking—about her, with that wistful voice that was always associated with lost potential. Here, I'd never been his friend or lover. I'd just been a possibility.

_—Magneto. Mystique. Sabretooth. Toad. The Professor. Scott. Jean. Ororo.—_ I paused, feeling a growl rise in the back of my throat. —_Most of all, Logan. He would know.—_

The sudden urge to jump to my feet and track down Logan was overwhelming—Carol froze me in place.

_—You know, you and Logan are making me fucking nervous taking over like that.—_

_—Trust me, if I could take over for good, at this point, I would. You're making a mess of this. Stick to your priorities—getting us out of here.—_

_—Yes, Carol. Of course, I'm just fucking around. Gimme a second, I'll run up to Magneto and ask for one of those nice interdimensional gates he keeps in his back pocket, okay?—_

_—Cute.—_

"...and Polaris agreed."

And this is why I needed to remember not to fight with those inner personalities, because shit, I had no idea what he was talking about. But his face was strangely lit up, blue eyes clear as a summer day. Breathtaking. I had loved him, I had to have. It hadn't been just a simple crush, he hadn't been my placebo for unrequited love, no matter what everyone had said. No matter what he had said on the day he'd left me.

"She did?" Repeat, sugar. Repeat it for me. Please.

"Yeah." Was that—there was a shadow on his face now. All the tiny muscles in his jaw had tightened and the blue eyes wouldn't quite meet mine. "We—Lensherr thinks this'll break the last of the human resistance. And he's right; it's gotta be done now. Just—" he sighed. "She was honored, you know."

_—What the fuck did I miss?—_

"Yeah. Honored," I echoed. Polaris. Cool name. Polaris. "She's—" Would I know her power in this world? Polaris indicated something magnetic. What the _hell_ was he talking about?

"Mr. Lensherr has been working with her every day, trying to bring her up to full power. She was _really_ untrained when he found her." I caught Bobby's fond smile. "Almost wiped the computers by accident when she lost concentration last week. And bent all the spoons in the kitchen."

Magnetic. Okies. We're good there. I should have been listening closer. Polaris was honored to _what_?

"We're just hoping it'll work this time, even if we don't have—you know, Rogue."

It took a moment to process. Work. Magnetic power, connect to Rogue, honored because....

"Lensherr's running the machine again."

"Logan and Lensherr tracked down the leaders—as soon as they finish running the tests, Polaris will get in, and we'll have the last of the human leaders on our side. Hopefully—Well, we can't afford another war. We can't. We're still uncovering some of the anti-mutant weaponry and biological weapons." Bobby shivered. "If they got their hands on those..."

I nodded, knowing my voice wasn't going to hold out and not even caring. Bobby patted my shoulder.

"We—When he first brought it up, we couldn't imagine letting someone else go through what Rogue did, you know? But...but after the crap we found in the military bases, everything changed. And Polaris, she wants this. Lensherr's running her through meditation exercises—the test run a couple of days ago wiped her out." Bobby's mouth twitched slightly. "Speaking of that—I need to go check on her. Do you want—"

"You mind if I stay here?" I asked slowly, measuring out each word. Calm, Marie. Calm, calm, calm.

"Feel free." He smiled. "If you need help finding your room—"

"I'll be fine, Bobby. Thanks."

He nodded, brushing his fingertips across my shoulder before rising, and all the skin on my shoulder broke into cold goosebumps. Something resembling a smile stretched my lips automatically, and I hoped to God that it didn't look too fake, that I looked normal, and apparently, I pulled it off, because Bobby walked back inside. As soon as he was gone, I slumped into the bench.

_—I can't start screaming right here, can I?—_

_—Maybe you should go somewhere else to do that.—_ Logan's voice was amused. —_Marie, just bring that to a stop. You can have a nervous breakdown later. You cannot—cannot—do it now.—_

I nodded, not quite able to articulate words, and dragged my legs up under me, crossing them and placing my hands on my thighs.

_—Good girl.—_

Clear my mind, clear my body, they-are-putting-someone-else-in-that-machine, clear my mind, clear my body, Bobby-thinks-I-went-in-that-thing-willingly, clear my mind, clear my body—what-if-I-did-go-into-it-willingly, clear—breathe.

_Breathe._

_Breathe._

Slowly, so slowly, seven years of discipline did assert itself. I was Rogue, an X-Man, a student, a teacher. I was _not_ an hysterical little girl and I was _not_ going to worry about crap I couldn't change.

When my heartbeat had returned to normal, I opened my eyes and took in the garden again. It seemed the least of the uncomfortable thoughts swirling in my head.

_—It's weird—they really did try to get it exactly like before.—_

I meant, the house, the grounds, the Professor's office, my room, even the halls—it was vaguely startling because I could feel the slight differences, just lurking in the edges of my mind. Strange, but not alien. Still home.

"I don't believe we've been introduced."

I looked up, a little startled, to watch Jean's approach.

From the edge of the dining room, I hadn't been able to get a good look at her; up close and personal, I was utterly floored. She carried herself like a weapon, like a banner, and it was suddenly easy, too easy, to recognize that this wasn't my Jean, not anything close to her. Beautiful still, hair cut shorter than I remembered, in the tailored suits of her profession, a smile turning up her lips in welcome. The dark eyes, however, didn't reflect the easy warmth I remembered, and she thrummed with a power I could sense at only a few feet away.

My Jean had never had that level of power inside her—or if she did, she'd never discovered it.

_—Whoa.—_

_—Stop drooling, Logan.—_

"Hi." I shifted rapidly to my feet, and what was it about Jean always made me feel small and clumsy and dirty? No idea—I almost sighed and quickly controlled it. "I—I'm Marie Danvers, Dr. Grey."

Her smile was dazzling and she extended a hand—hadn't she noted the fact I hadn't extended mine?

_—It's easier to read someone you're touching. Very easy. Almost inevitable.—_

I shivered and slowly let my hand lift, her long fingers closing over it—and my mind slammed down every shield I knew instantly, everything Jean had taught me and drilled in me, everything Xavier had shown me. No way was she going in my head. At least, not without a fight.

There was no perceivable reaction from the dark eyes when I felt her quick, casual dart fail, but—God, it was strong. Too strong for my memories of Jean Grey. As I stepped back, shaken, Jean nodded.

"Welcome to Xavier's school. Please, sit down. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

_—She's kidding. She's doing her damndest to make me uncomfortable.—_

_—She wants you off-balance.—_Logan's inner voice still had traces of startlement running through it and I almost sighed. I did _not_ need to get through a round of erotic-Jean-dreams while I was here, thank-you-very-much. —_She wants you to break your concentration.—_

Slowly, I took my seat and she lowered herself down beside me with exquisite grace, leaning her chin on her hands.

"Erik told me you'd arrived." A pause, while I took in the jarring intimacy of Jean using Magneto's personal name. "Are you settling in well?"

"Yes, thank you." I paused, trying to think of what else she wanted to hear. "Bobby's been great. So's Johnny."

"Johnny?" Her brows knit delicately. "St. John?" A slight smile turned up her lips, soft and slightly alluring. Wasted on me. Apparently not wasted on inner Logan though, and I resigned myself to a night of weird dream sex. "I've never heard him called that before."

Another dart of her mind and I felt my shields shudder—I hadn't been ready for that.

"They were—great. I'm glad to be here."

Jean nodded, eyes searching my face.

"When you have time, please come down to the lab and we can start your work-up. I'd like to get you classified and examined as soon as possible. How does tomorrow afternoon sound, around four?"

"Uh—fine. That'd be fine." Another, sharper poke and I was getting a little dizzy trying to balance the outside world and my concentration—shit, she was strong. Somewhere distant, I could hear Logan trying to say something, but it was too hard to keep track of outer conversation and the inner assault. I wasn't prepared for a Jean this strong—I hadn't been _training_ with a Jean this strong. There was the softest shudder of my inner shields and I hoped to God she didn't feel it.

_—Why is she doing this?—_ I didn't like what it said about Jean Grey or this particular world, for that matter. Betsy I could understand—but Jean was one of the strictest practitioners of ethics I'd ever met.

"Excellent." Jean rose, smiling down at me, and I blinked as the pressure eased. "I hope you'll enjoy your stay with us. Have a nice evening, Marie. I'll see you tomorrow." Another smile, utterly brilliant, but inner Logan didn't react. Oh, how strange. Relieving, but—

_—If I could take over RIGHT NOW I would.—_ Carol's voice was furious and I grabbed for my head as soon as Jean was out of sight.

_—Huh?—_

_—MEDICAL EXAM. Fuck, Rogue, are you actually wanting to have this happen? Are you that hot to get caught? YOU AGREED!—_

Startled, I turned my head from watching Jean go inside. Forgot that quick—but it worried me far more to note that my mental shields were exhausted and I'd be broadcasting if I wasn't careful. Shutting my eyes, I pulled my legs up under me and began to try to regain the ground I'd lost.

_{It was so high—the air felt thinner and the cuffs were biting into my wrists—struggling so far hadn't done a damn bit of good. Sinking down, I tried to push my thumb farther into my palm, trying to make my hand smaller, get out of the cuffs. I wanted out. Out, out, out.—}_

_{"Don't do this," I begged, and maybe there was compassion in his eyes when they met mine. But not enough—compassion was not enough, would never be enough. Not for me. Bastard.}_

_{"I'm sorry, child." Liar, liar, liar, he wasn't sorry, he couldn't be sorry. If he was sorry, he'd let me go now, let me down off here, his hands wouldn't be—wouldn't be touching my face, cold up here so high, God, I don't want to die, I haven't even lived yet...}_

"ACK!"

I sat straight up and watched Kitty collapse beside the bed, one hand outstretched. Rushing through my dream-confused mind was thousands of images I couldn't begin to process. I grabbed for my head, groaning at her horror and shock and—

_—...Rogue...?—_

Oh God, no, she knew who I was, they'd know, and my feet wanted to move, my mind wanted to scream for Jean, because Kitty knew something wasn't right and she was so strong in my mind, I could feel her in every pore of my skin.

_—Calm down, Rogue.—_ Carol's voice was acid, burning through the layers of confusion and panic, and I breathed out abruptly. —_Just a—there we go.—_ Slowly, the images faded. —_You know how to sort your mind. Start fixing it. Good girl, bring it under control.—_

My training with the Professor snapped into place. I wrapped my arms around my knees, shutting my eyes, and began to sort through the personality that Carol and Logan were damming for me. It wasn't an easy process, and I knew I couldn't finish it now, no chance of it. I had an unconscious Kitty to do something about.

_—Carol, if you say kill her...—_

_—I wasn't. You're strange about that sort of thing. No. We're going to set up an accident and she fell when she was waking you up. Short term memory is usually shorted out anyway during trauma—she touched you and then stumbled, hit the back of her head on something.—_

I pondered this briefly—inner Kitty was utterly aghast past the hysteria.

_—Notice the lack of, say, a bump?—_

Carol sighed.

_—You're strong enough. Lift up her head, hit it against the floor.—_

I crawled down to the rug-covered hardwood. I'd trained enough with my strength to know how much force to use—a nice bruise, a headache, a little concussion maybe—please God, no, but it could happen. Straddling her body, I lifted her head and looked into her face.

"Kitty, I owe you." Then, with infinite care, I hit her head into the floor. Waited a moment, then grabbed my blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders, flicking a look in the mirror to see my hair, adjusting the wig—this damn thing had to go soon. With that in mind, I looped the blanket over my head, locking my fingers on it below my throat.

Open door, get into hall, now be hysterical. Convincingly. Not hard.

"Help! Help!" I screamed, and doors began to open. Scott and Jean both emerged from their door, eyes finding me instantly. In a few minutes, my room was flooded with worried and curious people and I retreated to my bed, drawing my bare legs up beneath the covers. Jean glanced around to take in the scene and sat down on the floor, gently cradling Kitty's head, eyes dark with worry.

"Just a bruise—maybe a concussion. Scott, could you carry her down to the infirmary?" Her voice was firm as Scott gently picked Kitty up, injured head cradled on his shoulder. "Are you okay, Marie?"

And double strange, to hear her call me Marie. Freaky, even. I clutched my blanket closer.

"Everyone out," Scott said, and I got glimpses of suspicious looks and the faintest frowns as they retreated in Scott's wake. With a flicker of her fingers, Jean shut the door, locking out the other presences and tilting her head to give me an unreadable look.

"My fault," I said softly. She slowly seated herself on the bed and I hoped my hands were hidden well enough that she didn't see I was wearing gloves. "I—I had a bad dream and she—she woke me up. She—startled me."

All true. Jean hesitated, then slowly nodded.

"That happens, Marie. She'll be fine—I'll just keep her in observation for the night, but I didn't see anything serious." A pause. "Do you want to talk about it? Your dream?"

_{Hands grabbing me, holding me down, I could hear the machinery in the distance. I wanted to scream, but they'd gagged my mouth and I saw—oh God, more needles, more tests, a scalpel, and the collar was so tight, God, how could they do this and believe this was good, that this was human, nothing more than animals...}_

"God," I whispered, my body beginning to shake. Jean's arm touched my shoulder and I jerked involuntarily. Instantly, she dropped her hand, and real warmth, compassion—all Jean Grey—flowed from her, wrapping me up in empathic warmth and caring.

She wasn't my Jean Grey, but God, she was close.

"I'm sorry, Marie." Slowly, she stood up, letting her hand linger on my shoulder despite the stiffness. "Do you want someone with you tonight?"

I shook my head sharply.

"I don't think I'll be sleeping." Truth. I wouldn't be, even if I didn't have to assimilate all of Kitty's memories. Jean nodded quickly and turned toward the door, hesitating with her hand on the doorknob.

"If you need anything, just call." A pause. "Anything, Marie. That's what we're here for."

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I nodded. Not so different. My Jean.

"Thanks, Dr. Grey."

"Jean," she said with a small smile. "Good night, Marie."

With the door closed behind her, I pushed the blanket off, crossing my legs and shutting my eyes, beginning the breathing exercises Logan had taught me, the discipline that Jean and Xavier had trained into me, and delved deep into the feel of Kitty's mind.

Never had so much changed so fast.


	2. Interlude 1:  The Memory

_i remember kneeling beside you in  
the darkness  
and attempting to catch the blood  
between my fingers as it drained from you.  
but the physician could not even heal  
himself.  
they had taken that away, stolen the gift.  
in the end i could only watch._

_—I Could Only Watch by Darkstar_

* * *

_ **September, seven years earlier** _

He didn't need to be here for this—he'd walked out of Jean's lab two hours before and he knew she expected him to leave immediately, and the thought had teased him.

A lot of thoughts teased him though—the feel of Rogue's—Marie's—skin under his fingers, under his face when he felt his body leeching heat from it, but no tingle of reviving power. It stuck with him for far longer than he ever would have suspected—teased him with a soft itch under his skin, though perhaps that was merely his healing factor fixing any remaining damage. Absently, he flexed an arm—good as new. Flip of his wrist and the claws sliced outward, loud in the silence of pre-dawn, suddenly remembering how hot they felt going sinking into Marie's chest. Shaking himself from the uncharacteristically intense memory, he let them slide back in, watching as the wounds healed.

No change.

The porch was silent—the X-idiots wandering around, doing whatever they did post-mission, Logan knowing downstairs somewhere Rogue's—Marie's—body was being prepared for burial. No funeral homes or medical examiners for a nameless runaway mutant, too many questions—Jean signed off on the death certificate with a sigh and didn't ask why he sat in the room to watch.

She'd asked him if he knew her name, and he'd said Rogue, softly, surprising himself, wondering why it was so important to keep her name close, something that he shared with her, with a dead girl that three days ago he never even knew existed.

He supposed he could be considered next of kin, in the very loosest sense of the word. No one had asked how long he knew her, no one had asked why he was with her. That should have surprised him, and before, he would have answered if they'd asked. Now, he didn't even want to. That was something else that belonged solely to him—her name, her history, their history.

Or the lack thereof, as the case might be.

_I'll take care of you._

_You promise?_

Yes, he had, and he'd thought about lighting his third cigar of the night. He had to wonder why he was still wearing gloves—he could smell her on them, the lightest, lingering trace of her imprinted into the leather that he hadn't discarded with the uniform. Quickly, he put down the cigar, pulling them off so the smoke from the cigar wouldn't further dilute it, tucking them into his pocket.

"Logan?"

The boy's scent was awash with heavy traces of shock—Logan recognized the signs, recognized more in his expression than he'd expected to find, far more familiar than he was comfortable with. Sick disgust, failure, a pounding, almost merciless anger that would target anyone and anything in range, and that odd control that Logan wouldn't pretend to completely understand, that let the younger man continue to function as long as he was needed. And he was needed—Logan read the demoralization of the other team members in every line of their bodies, had to respect the man beside him that was keeping himself together and by extension keeping his team together.

Logan wondered if he should pity him; his mission had failed—failed completely and absolutely. They'd gotten nothing out of this except a few more horrors and the knowledge that a portion of New York and a group of world leaders were going through some serious issues right now. They could be dead, dying, changing. He knew Scott was worrying about it, knew the Professor was awake downstairs, reading the reports, preparing for a worst-case scenario except—

—except there was a surreality to all this. Logan stared at the unlit cigar. For some reason up there—he hadn't even considered failure. Not really. Not concretely. He'd promised, and up until the moment her skin let him touch her, he'd believed, with a curious certainty, that it would work, that this one time, he could be more than just a  
the loner, that—

—fuck, where the _hell_ was this coming from?

"Scooter. Got lost looking for the bathroom?"

He expected hostility. Something. Even hoped for it, to drag some emotion out of himself that wasn't this strange inner silence. Maybe he was in shock too. She was just a girl—just a girl he'd picked up and knew for three days. A runaway, like a thousand other runaways, with the bad luck to be a mutant and the worse luck to have a mutation that an egomaniac had found useful. Nothing special, no one he'd cared about, and he hadn't—

"You okay?" asked Scott, voice low, and he dropped onto the step beside him. Something was extended in one hand that was steady, but Logan sensed it wouldn't stay that way too long. A bottle—some damn good whiskey from the scent—and Logan took it from him, absently turning it over to look at the label, confirm its quality.

"I'm fine. You?" Was he fine? Was this fine? He couldn't remember feeling like this before—as if he were waiting for something. He wasn't even sure for what.

"I'm sorry, Logan." Scott's voice was slightly hoarse—had to give the kid credit for control, because he was doing a damn fine job. Logan shrugged, pulling out his lighter and biting off the tip of the cigar, then considering, he pulled out another and tossed it into Scott's lap.

The younger man picked it up as if he expected it to bite him.

"I don't smoke."

"You look like you need to."

That earned him a laugh—not a real one, and the scent was changing, was different—Logan wondered why Scott wasn't with Jeannie, letting her give what comfort she could. Shit, he would be—would have pulled her into bed, let red hair and beautiful eyes start erasing the images that were burned into the empty spaces of Logan's mind, of dark hair streaked with white and closed eyes, warm flesh replacing the feel of cold, the weight of a living, breathing body driving out the touch of the dead.

The way those brown eyes hadn't opened. The way she hadn't breathed. The deafening lack of a heartbeat that he'd tuned himself in to hear. It was supposed to be there. When he touched her, he should have felt something—life, energy. Her. But there was nothing. Nothing but the painfully tiny weight of her body and the long neck titled back against his arm.

Remembering the sound of her scream, he jerked his lighter up, lighting the tip of the cigar, then turning slightly to gaze at the younger man. Scott was studying the long brown cylinder with an abstracted look, like a student who knew the theory but not the practice.

"Bite the tip off."

The visored gaze jerked up and Logan almost thought he looked offended.

"I know how to smoke a cigar. I don't—"

"You said that. Do it anyway."

There was a pause while the visored gaze studied him, then flickered back to the cigar. Logan almost grinned at the soft sigh.

Scott obviously knew what he was doing—bit the tip off with a grimace at the flavor, sliding it between his lips, and Logan lit it efficiently before tucking the lighter away in his jacket and drawing in a long breath of fragrant smoke.

"How old was she?"

Logan paused at that. She didn't have a name, an age, a family. When they buried her today, there would be no one to mourn her, no one to remember her other than as a temporary student, a failed mission, a memory that would fade into time. These people—they wouldn't remember her for long, with their saving the world creed and their numerous living charges.

She'd be buried here, as nothing more than potential.

"Sixteen," he said softly, staring into the driveway, at the puffs of dust. Seventeen? Maybe fifteen, but sixteen sounded right. Drew in another breath of smoke, holding it to excuse the way his eyes began to burn. She was so small on Jeannie's examining table—face starkly white in death, the harsh flourescents sucking away the little color that remained in her face, her lips. Letting out the smoke when his lungs began to burn, he looked at Scott briefly, and the visored gaze was fixed somewhere distant.

"So young."

Young to be on the road. She'd touched three people since her change: the boy in her hometown; he, Logan; and Magneto, the bastard that had killed her up there—now locked securely up by the government. Dawn was rising soon, and Logan knew that he had to be away before then—had to. He couldn't be here to see them bury her. But that didn't seem right somehow—that no one would mourn her. They'd mourn Rogue, the mutant who had died—but somehow, they wouldn't be mourning Marie, the runaway girl Logan had first seen through the wire of a cage in a bar in Laughlin.

"I need to do rounds." Scott was standing up, snuffing out the cigar and tucking it in his jacket pocket. Logan glanced up and Scott shrugged a little. "The kids are upset."

Why the fuck should they be? Irrational anger unexpectedly boiled up from Logan's chest, and he heard the beginnings of a soft growl. They didn't know her, not really—they'd known her for two days, short fucking days. She'd—she'd attended some classes, and hadn't he seen her wandering around with some kid? Blond kid—

Logan stood up, smashing the cigar down on the edge of the porch. Being alone didn't seem as attractive as it had only ten seconds before.

"I'll go with you."

The children were sleeping, mostly. Scott checked door to door, and Logan observed his care not to disturb them. Most of them probably didn't know what had happened, would find out in the morning, except a few who'd been sitting downstairs. Vaguely, Logan recalled the tiny group in pajamas by the rec room door, running up to Scott when he'd passed on his way outside, remembered someone asking about Rogue in a frightened voice.

He'd been out before he'd heard Scott explain what had happened, and hadn't really considered what Scott must have told them.

Logan stopped at sounds coming from the last door down the hall.

"What?"

"Fifth door—someone's up." He shouldn't be doing this—he had no reason following this kid around the campus while he did bedchecks on little anklebiters, but it kept him from thinking, and he liked that. He liked the mindless task of looking at people who seemed perfectly content not to know that someone had died tonight.

Scott headed toward the door and Logan followed, glancing around briefly, taking in the scents. Someone had been crying—some anger, a little shock, nothing like what was coming off Scooter still, though. Scott stopped in front of the door, pausing briefly, before knocking once.

The silence that suddenly descended was not unexpected, and Scott knocked again before opening the door, stepping inside and stopping still. Logan moved so that he could see what—and realized with a shock whose room this was.

Marie's.

Her scent was soaked into it, battling against that of the four living kids crowded onto the floor and her bed. He moved closer, breathing it in almost unconsciously. It would fade soon, he knew—but so strong right now. It was as if—God, as if she was still here somewhere.

"Sir." Blond kid, face red—that was the one he'd seen walking with Marie. The boy pulled himself awkwardly to his feet, blinking at the sight of his teacher, probably not even seeing Logan standing just outside the door. "Sorry, sir, I—"

"It's okay, Bobby." Logan glanced at the small brunette on the floor, one of Marie's pillows under her arms. The steady dark gaze was fixed on Scott, but suddenly flickered to him in surprise. Asian girl—he wondered if Marie had met her. "Are the rest of you okay?"

There was a chorus of nods from the little group and Bobby—that was right, he remembered now—Bobby nodded mutely, not yet sitting back down.

"Jubilee, Kitty, you need to be in bed." Scott's voice was kind.

"We were—we were just talkin'," the Asian girl countered defensively, clutching the pillow a little tighter. Shit, she looked young—fifteen, sixteen? No older than Marie, certainly. Logan stepped in a little closer and Bobby's eyes widened at the sight of him. The girl didn't—the clear brown eyes met his without hesitation. "Hi—Logan?"

"Yeah." The other girl must be Kitty—and there was the fire-kid that 'Ro had called St. John, crouching almost protectively beside Bobby. He thought they were waiting for him to say something—shit if he knew what, and why the fuck was he here?

Most of these kids were runaways, the Professor had said during that tour, when he'd watched Rogue acclimatize herself to her new circumstances. She'd gone up in the world fast, from alone to truck to expensive Mansion and clean clothes and regular meals. Looking at the four children, he wondered if they'd been runaways too, and only by the grace of God finding their way here.

"...and get some sleep, okay? The funeral is tomorrow." Scott said, and Logan tuned out his voice. He didn't need this, didn't really give a shit about the girls who were giving him that look Marie had—as if they saw something that he didn't when he looked in a mirror. He suddenly wondered, for no reason, what the fuck Marie had been thinking, climbing into his camper. No matter how limited her options had been, it made him wonder. It was one of those things he would have asked her one day—if she'd lived.

If.

It was one of those things he'd never have the answer to, unless he decided to sit these two girls down and have them explain why they were watching him as if they weren't afraid at all, when by all rights they damn well should be.

Turning on his heel and ignoring Scott's surprised question, he went back down the hall, took the stairs two at a time and finding the elevator, blindly pushing in the code combinations the Professor had given him. Leaning back against the wall, he took a deep breath.

He could still smell her on him—she'd been all over his uniform, and God, he should shower again, because it was getting to him. That scent. That—

The doors opened and Logan bolted out, feeling as if he'd just escaped the labs again. He could hear his heart pounding, his breath coming too fast, flight-or-fight kicking into high gear without a check-in at his head for consultation. The sterile hallway held her scent perfectly from when they'd carried her—body—from the Blackbird.

Slightly surreal, going down the hall, following the dying scent of her until he was in Jean's lab, walking to the wide metal bed Jean had been examining her on. Jerking back the sheet with a hand that shook, he stared into the silent face of this girl he didn't know.

"Why the fuck did you get in the truck?"

She was so still—he remembered how still she could be—watching him in the ring with a combination of fascination and disbelief, sitting on that barstool, curling up in the truck seat beside him, brown eyes turned down, little smile trembling on her lips hidden by a fall of dark hair.

He remembered how she'd warned him about that guy with a knife, watching him as if she knew that he could never kill when she looked at him from only feet away. Remembered that same clear gaze when she'd looked up at him in the train and asked him for one thing.

_{—You promise?—}_

"What the fuck did you see, Marie?" he asked, and touched her skin with his bare hand—perfectly fucking safe skin now, and he'd give anything if it would start pulling at him, if he could feel that hot, electric current that hurt—but shit, he'd welcome it, he'd give anything for it. She should be up in her room, sleeping her night away, safe and secure in a new home with a new life, gossiping with those girls, doing whatever it was that teenaged kids did together.

She should have her eyes open to look at him with that frightening, addicting trust. A look that made him want to live up to whatever silly, girlish images she had of the man she thought he was...even made him, however briefly, want to be worth that look. Slowly, he ran a hand over her face—God, she was cold, like she'd never been alive at all. Memorizing her face by touch, over the strands of white laced hair, slowly over her shoulder, feeling fragile bones through thin skin.

She'd be buried today, forgotten in a few years. Those kids upstairs—they'd had lives before her and would have lives after her; this was nothing to them. To Scooter, to Jeannie—to them all, it was a failed mission for a little girl they hadn't even known.

"I would have known you, kid," he heard himself say softly, stroking back her hair.

He wanted to know now—wanted to know everything about her. Her family, her friends, her favorite color, her favorite food. He hadn't asked her anything useful in the truck, hadn't asked her all those questions that hadn't seemed important, because he was going to leave her at the next stop.

But now, he wanted to know everything—did she like the school, did she like that Bobby-kid. If she'd forgive him for failing.

Shit, of course not. He'd gotten her killed. Having his fun kicking that motherfucking Sabrewhatever's ass, playing around with that blue bitch, letting that psychotic bastard pin him down—she was screaming and all she'd wanted in her life had been to be safe.

He was going to forget her too, with enough time. He'd forget the light drawl in her voice, the tilt of her head. He'd forget—

"L-Logan?"

He jerked around, claws extended—but the little girl by the door didn't draw back. Jubilee, he thought—the brown eyes widened and she paused, like anyone with sense, but being one of the population of three so far that seemed to have something seriously wrong with her self-preservation instincts, she simply slipped inside, closing the door behind her. God, she was young—even younger down here, when he could look at Marie next to her.

"What the hell do you want?" He let the claws slide back in and her gaze followed, a little fascinated.

"J-just to see if you were okay." A little pause, but she didn't come any closer—eyes slipping to the bed where Marie was laying under that sheet before darting away. He wondered if she'd ever seen a dead body before. He had—he'd caused some of those deaths. Like this one. Like this girl.

"Fine kid. Get out." He wanted to turn his back on her. But—he didn't.

Jubilee didn't retreat, and he wasn't even surprised—see population of three theory. Instead, she stayed by the wall, watching him with brown eyes that seemed to want to creep inside his head and take a good look around. He could have told her it would be a bad idea all around for her to try—she'd run and never stop.

"She—she talked about you, you know."

He strangled the growl that rose up inside him. She _had_ talked. All past tense. It didn't matter.

"I picked her up off the side of the road. Nothing in that."

Jubilee shrugged—he'd guess she was a little spitfire, no question, the way she raised an eyebrow at him.

"She thought it was more." A pause, and he realized that she was still in her nightclothes—little pajamas with fish on them. Marie had been wearing a nightgown—had anyone ever wondered why on earth she'd come to his room in the first place? Why had she done that? Why the fuck had she been wandering around the Mansion, and why had she come looking for him, why— "She liked you."

That just raised more questions he had no answers to; questions he was sure he would have asked her one day, after all this. Maybe on the lawn outside, she would have grinned up at him and answered, little gloved hands clasping her knee.

"You should go to bed."

Jubilee nodded, agreeing.

"Yeah, Mr. Summers'll have my ass if he finds out I have the access codes." She shrugged a little and Logan watched her sidle to the door, giving him a sideways glance from the corner of her eyes. "I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't know her that well or anything but—but I'm sorry."

So was he. God, more sorry with every passing second. Sorry that he hadn't gotten her age, just so he'd know, so something would be on that stone besides that name and a date of death. There was that burning again in his chest—something in him trying to get out, he wasn't sure what. He pushed it back in, forcing it under control.

"Get out." His voice softened as she winced, slowly turned toward the door. "I'll walk you up in a second." No idea why he made the offer, turned his back, angry at himself, and heard her quiet acceptance before slipping out. He looked at Marie's face.

She was so thin—she hadn't been eating, had probably been half starved. She'd almost swallowed his beef jerky whole, then had smiled at him as if it'd been steak or something. He touched her face again, running a finger down her cheek gently.

There it was—right there. Right there—the line of her throat that he'd never seen on any woman before, the sideways tilt of her head when she'd asked him a question, the way she'd pursed her lips when she'd thought through her answer.

He wanted to remember—remember every single thing; sight, sound, and feel.

"I'll remember you, Marie," he said softly, leaning down and brushing a kiss across her forehead. The burning increased, but he didn't care, even when he pulled away, feeling the hot dampness on his face, seeing the drops on her forehead that he smoothed into her skin. "I won't forget." Not if those government fuckers got him in the labs again and sucked everything else out of him. Her scent, her smile, the way her eyes lit up, the sound of her voice, her name. Especially her name.

He walked Jubilee up, thinking of Marie's smile, trying to brand her face into his consciousness completely. She wouldn't be forgotten, not by anyone here. When Jubilee tentatively asked him for his version of how he met Marie, he found himself telling her, starting from the moment he caught her scent in the cage. Later he sat by Jubilee's bed, watching her fall asleep and thinking of Marie and how this little girl couldn't be much older—just as lost, but not nearly as alone.

An hour later, he'd tracked down a pad of paper from the art room by smelling out the location of the paints, and then a pencil from the desk drawer. Sitting by the window as dawn spread rich-orange fingers across the sky, Logan began his first sketch. It was terrible and he tossed it on the floor, vaguely aware that there was something strange about what he was doing, but he didn't really care.

He could remember Marie.

When Jean tracked him down six hours later, he was surrounded by crumpled paper and two broken pencils. Logan thought—rather distantly, when he felt Jean touch his shoulder and ask if he was okay—that maybe in this picture, he'd get it right, get that tilt right, the fall of her hair, the curve of her throat.

That's when the dreams began, with the first finished sketch.


	3. The Way of It

_"...it is far better to be feared than loved if you can't have both."_   
_—Niccolo Machiavelli, "The Prince"_

* * *

"Marie?"

The voice was far away from my nice, comfortable, warm—oh, I fell asleep. Didn't expect that. There was a reason I wasn't supposed to fall asleep. Lemme think...

"Marie? Hey, it's morning. You wanna go get some breakfast?"

Bobby? Darling Bobby, who was...who was at the door. I stifled a yawn, turning into my pillow. Mornings sucked—and what was up with that Marie stuff? As I tried to roll onto my side, I noted my legs were tangled—crossed, even, as if I'd fallen asleep sitting up. Why—

_—Wakey, wakey. Welcome to hell.—_ Why thank you, Carol. Always good to get your snark first thing in the morning. Stretching my arms idly, I noted I was still wearing my gloves. Why did I sleep in....

"Shit!" I sat up, trying to take in my surroundings, blinking the sleep-fog away. My room—yes. There was Kitty's bed, and—where was Jubilee's? Did she move out again? No, this was something else—

"Marie?" I looked at Bobby. When did he let his hair grow—and that scar was new...

_—Marie, wake the hell up, darlin'. You're not in Kansas today.—_

A flood of memories—a short one, granted, and I sucked in a startled breath. This wasn't Kansas—eh, my Kansas—umm...my Westchester. It was that other place, this was that other Bobby, and Jubilee didn't live here anymore.

Where _*was*_ Jubilee anyway?

"Hey." I kicked the blankets off, trying to bring everything in my head together: different Westchester, different Bobby, camps, fences, Rogue-dead—got it. My—my hair—I pushed a hand up to my head in panic but the blonde wig was still locked in place. I was good with bobby-pins. "Yeah. Breakfast." Think, think, think. "Umm...I'm gonna take a shower. Do you—"

"I'll meet you downstairs," he said with a smile. He'd always been a morning person, damn him. "Come on, Johnny."

Ah, Johnny, who stabbed me with a quick, sharp glance as he passed by my door. I slowly stood up, walking to push the door closed, then rethought the situation and locked it for good measure. Which I seriously should have considered doing the night before. Oh well. Shaking my head, I went into the bathroom, taking off the wig after a few tactical pin removals and placing it on the sink, then unpinned my hair and took a good look at myself in the mirror.

Oh yes. Here you are, in mirror world. Oz, even. Something like that. And you look fine. So far, you've changed timelines, seen your tomb, almost killed one of your best friends, and made a lot of people ultra-suspicious. All kinds of good things managed in one day. And don't forget that being dead part.

"Shit."

_—Clever, darlin'._—

I so wasn't in the mood for him right now. With a growl, I turned to the shower, flipping on the hot water and pulling off my t-shirt and underwear before climbing in. Kitty had quite a selection of bath gels and shampoos. And I should feel really guilty for using them after half-killing her.

I should, but I was feeling like crap, and mint bodywash, with any luck, would do something for my mood. Leaning back against the cool tile wall, I shut my eyes. A nice long, leisurely hot shower. Oh yes. That would help. Ducking my head beneath the water, I reconsidered the idea of cutting my hair—but where would I go to get it done? Was my favorite salon in operation, and anyway, with my skin issues, that could be a problem if it wasn't—not to mention the entire issue of making sure no one _*saw*_ me, and what if other mutants went there regularly too? Find the time to dye it—and getting from brown to blonde was hell on earth; I'd tried it during my Carol-controlled days and never gotten it right. Maybe I should have chosen a different shade of blonde wig. Golden-blonde was hard to get right....

_—Marie, honey, we don't have time for this. Bobby and Johnny are waiting downstairs for you.—_

Bobby was waiting downstairs. I take too long, he might come looking for me.

Straightening, I grabbed a sponge and got to work.

Getting out, I towel-dried my hair and looked into the mirror for a long time, absently brushing it tangle-free. It'd be easier if I cut it—less danger of my hair forcing the wig off or random strands appearing out of nowhere. With a sigh, I began rooting through the cabinet drawers. Kitty always kept a good supply of possibly necessary beauty products and other sundry, but me, couldn't even keep up with my own pair of tweezers. First drawer—brush, comb, pick, toilet paper; second drawer—tweezers, toenail clippers, here we go, scissors. Straightening in front of the mirror, I took a long, deep breath.

I hadn't had a serious haircut since my tenth birthday—running my fingers through the waving brown strands that clung damply to my fingers, I remembered how Jean would help me find creative ways to keep it out of my way during missions, remembered the number of hair care products in my closet at home, the luxury of mayonnaise treatments with Jubes and Kitty. Absently, I caressed a long length down over my shoulder, felt it heavy and wet on my lower back.

No problem. It was just hair. I could do this.

Picking up a length of hair, I held the scissors and marked the place I needed to cut with two fingers. Shutting my eyes tight, I made the first cut and felt the heavy length drop to my feet on the floor. The stunted end caressed the edge of my chin and I opened my eyes to check the length and winced. Grabbing the trash can with trembling fingers, I picked up the dropped hair and slipped it in, then ducked from the sight of the mirror and tilted my head forward, blindly made the corrections by touch, watching with a strange sort of sick fascination as the weight of silky-dark and blinding silver-white coiled like a snake at the bottom of the plastic liner. Barely breathing, I made the final cut and shut my eyes tight again as I brushed away the remaining cut hairs from my face and neck and slowly stood up. The ends of my hair brushed my cheeks and the top of my neck with every movement of my head.

For a full minute, I stared into the mirror and recognized that I'd made Marie Danvers fact. Unevenly chopped, the waves thickened into half-hearted curls as I reached for the pins and my hands shook as I began to secure the remains of my hair to my head.

It'd grow back. It was just hair. No biggie here, none at all. I bit down on my lip while I picked up the bag from the trashcan and hid it under my bed once my wig was in place. I'd need to dispose of that someplace safe soon.

Dressed and rewigged, I emerged from my room, passing kids who gave me nods and a few adults I didn't recognize. Several humans edged by me, blending themselves into the walls as if they wished they could disappear into them. Frankly, it was spooky—worse, it seemed justified, when a kid that couldn't be above thirteen winked at me and levitated a young man off his feet and into the air. The human let out a startled scream, dropping the pile of folded cream linen onto the woven blue hall rug.

The laughter from the kid's group of friends was sickening and I turned away quickly, hoping my face didn't reflect anything but blank acceptance. Breakfast suddenly seemed like a _*really*_ bad idea.

At the bottom of the stairs, true to form, were Bobby and Johnny. Johnny, making cute little fire shapes that danced in midair, was smiling at something Bobby was saying, and I noted how really sinister he could look all in black—shirt, jeans, and cross-trainers. As I touched my foot to the bottom stair, both of them looked up, alerted by whatever sixth sense men had about things like attractive women appearing in their general proximity.

No, I'd never lacked confidence. At least something was looking up today.

"Hey," said Bobby, admiring gaze tracing me in the three-quartered sleeve green shirt and the jeans that were a size too big, but I'd been in a rush at the store. He didn't look bad himself—a red t-shirt that looked vaguely starched stretched over a muscled chest, combined with nicely worn jeans. Yummy. St. John blinked, taking me in—all that nice clean morning sunlight on my face from all the huge windows. Shit. He frowned a little, then shut his hand over his fire and shrugged, touching Bobby's shoulder.

There was no way he could recognize me, even with statuary of my face scattered around. Just no way. Seven years of maturity had changed me, the eye-color was green, no longer brown, and short, straight blonde hair. Think about it, Roguey. You're good here.

"You two ready?" Johnny asked as Bobby's admiring regard stretched out uncomfortably enough for me to shift slightly on the last stair. I'd forgotten how Bobby used to look at me, as if I was the most wonderful thing in the world. It was a heady feeling, truth be told.

"Sure," Bobby answered, without a glance at Johnny, and very lightly brushed the collar of my shirt. I smiled tightly, forcing my body not to react.

_—Now that you're done drooling over Drake, honey, maybe you should think about finding out some stuff.—_

_—Okay. This is what I'll do. I stand up in the middle of breakfast and ask who specialized in Twilight Zone as a hard science, because man, do I have a problem.—_

Carol went perfectly silent—I wasn't sure whether it was because she was angry or because I actually had a point—sort of. Victory was victory, however, and I took it any way I could.

_—You need to find a way to talk to someone, see someone you can trust.—_

_—Jean and Betsy play psi-games and I wouldn't trust Magneto any farther than the tip of my nose. Scott is Jean's husband—thank you Kitty for that trivia—and I don't know about the others.—_

_—You want an excuse to approach Logan.—_

Maybe. I tried to consider that, dodging out of the way of a passing student. Probably unnecessary, but the habits of being Rogue the Untouchable stuck.

_—Yes and no. He's my best friend. I don't trust anyone like I trust him.—_

_—He's not the same here.—_

_—None of them are. Feel free to suggest. Bobby's enthusiasm for the Polaris experiment isn't doing anything for my peace of mind, and Johnny...I don't know.—_

"Marie, what are you hungry for?"

Oh. Hmm, here we were at the breakfast buffet and I hadn't even noticed we'd gotten to the dining room. This inner talk stuff was going to have to be curtailed in public. I consulted my stomach briefly, then eyed the variety of breakfasty foods available. "Fruit, I think." I got a tray from the stack on the edge of the buffet table, carefully not looking at the humans very inconspicuously carrying empty bowls and trays in and out of the kitchen door. It wouldn't help my appetite.

Picking out a banana and a bowl of strawberries, I grabbed a glass of orange juice as an afterthought, and then silverware at the end of the sideboard. As before, Bobby led me to a quiet table, and oddly well out of range of the main table, where the other X-Men were eating. From the corner of my eye, I saw Jean and Scott come in together, but they were too far away for me to hear what they were talking about. Quickly, I dropped into the closest chair, looking down at my tray, wondering where Logan was.

"You don't eat much, do you?" I blinked, looking up from my contemplation of the banana to see Bobby smiling at me over his truly massive breakfast selection. God, that boy could eat. Surreal. He'd commented often on my eating habits when we were together. Once said he didn't understand how I survived on how little I ate. He didn't know how my body had adjusted to little food during my time as a runaway hitchhiker, and I'd never made the push to adjust back. Just seemed safer that way.

"No—have you seen Kitty this morning?" Grabbing my fork, I picked out a ripe strawberry, trying to look interested and hopeful—which I was. Definitely. Almost killed the girl, after all.

"Not yet." Bobby thought for a second. "I heard about what happened." He practically oozed sympathy. I caught a disgusted expression on St. John's face and quickly turned my eyes back down. "If Jean's up here, she should be fine, though. Don't worry. It happens to all of us." So warm, so sweet, so very, very Bobby. Almost normal, too, and how disturbing was that?

And how very disturbing could it be that someone waking up and attacking a roommate could be considered pretty damn normal? I choked down a half-chewed chunk of strawberry and stabbed another in half. My stomach wasn't too thrilled with the prospect of food, no matter what kind. Damn. Absorptions had always taken my appetite away for a few days—I'd never quite figured out why.

_—All right, get done there.—_ Ah, Logan. Great.

_—And how are you this fine, morning, sugar?—_

_—Don't be smart with me. We have things to do. I suggest you start lookin' around the school and see what you can find out about Magneto's newest experiments.—_

_—Bobby can show me around.—_

Logan growled softly and I dropped my fork in surprise. That was unexpected.

_—Logan?—_

_—Never mind. You're right. Get your new best friend there to show you around, see what you can get from him.—_

I nodded—the touch with Kitty had been so quick, most of it was fading already. But I had a little bit trailing through my head like a trail of slime—sudden, horribly vivid images that I knew would make up my newest nightmares, no question. I glanced at Bobby as he devoured a small mountain of scrambled eggs and St. John played with his pancakes—they were quiet, and for some reason, their silence didn't seem comfortable.

I thought about that for a few moments.

_—St. John never liked me.—_

_—St. John never liked you when you were hangin' all over Bobby. He was fine with you otherwise, you know.—_

I sighed, because that was true, and got two pair of vivid blue eyes fixed on me for my trouble. I pulled out a smile and pasted it across my face before burying myself back in conspicuous strawberry consumption.

_—Yeah. I know.—_ Didn't like it, hadn't liked it when Bobby and I were dating and St. John had played the part of best friend to perfection, but I could always feel it, feel his dislike. And here it was again. Whoo-hoo. Again, sameness.

"Bobby," I said, looking up with my brightest smile. "You mind finishing the tour after breakfast?"

He lit up, pure happiness oozing from every pore, and it was familiar. So familiar, wonderful, and I caught my breath a little in surprise—had he always looked at me like that?

_—Libido down, girl.—_ Carol's amusement was rich through me.

"Sure. Just give me a second to finish." He attacked the eggs with new determination and I grinned as I dropped my fork into my half-finished bowl of strawberries, absently tucking the banana into my pocket. I might want it later, if my appetite returned.

"I'll meet you in the garden." I answered, getting to my feet and reaching for my tray, ignoring the stab of St. John's eyes. "I'm going to go ask Dr. Grey how Kitty is."

Bobby opened his mouth to say something—umm, why?—but St. John's hand on his arm stopped him flat. Johnny had always been like that though—Bobby's single decent link to the earth. Left to his own devices, Robert Drake was either relatively quiet or an incredibly careless extrovert—a lethal combination if there ever was one. St. John, both cynical and circumspect, had always been his best foil as well as his best friend.

Well, except when they froze and melted the pipes in my bathroom for fun, at which time they joined my Top Ten List of People To Watch.

Turning away, I deposited my tray and turned toward the main table. Then stopped short, checking—ah, no Logan.

_—Clever, darlin'. Maybe next time you'll *look* before you leap.—_

Ah, sarcasm in the morning. Always good for digestion. Picking up my pace and hoping no one noticed my hesitation, I slowly approached the dais and realized—

—wow, was I allowed to go up there? Magneto wasn't in evidence anymore, and the faintest traces of Erik that still remained in my head reminded me that he had always been an ultra-early morning person. He was probably already at work, plotting the destruction of mankind. Were common mutants allowed to approach the Big Table? Was I breaking some weird new mutant etiquette?

Screw it.

"Marie." Jean was smart, I'd give her that. Dropping her napkin and turning her attention from Ororo, she motioned me over. Gratefully, despite our interesting conversation the night before, I ascended the dais. "I thought I'd see you this morning. Sit down."

I nodded dumbly, tentatively perching on the chair beside her. Jean shifted until she faced me, the sharp brown eyes meeting mine. She was dressed far more casually today—simple short-sleeved, dark-green blouse that complemented the chin-length red hair, plain khaki slacks. The slightest edge of power lingered just outside my shields—she wasn't "on" so to speak, and I blinked a little. It was somewhat comparable to being inches from an electric fence—you could _*feel*_ the buzz, just beyond the range of your senses.

"Is—is Kitty okay?" I asked, forcing my attention from the feel of her. Inner Logan and Carol were both silent, stationed in key positions inside my shield—if she broke through, she'd be dealing with some seriously interesting personalities wandering around and blocking my presence. I wondered, a little vaguely, what she'd make of Logan there.

Jean pursed her lips, head tilting.

"She's still unconscious, but otherwise uninjured, and I'm not seeing any abnormalities in the tests I ran."

_—Shit. Could they pick up my little sucking thing in a test on Kitty?—_

_—Well, Jeannie couldn't back at the lab, so probably not, darlin'. Just don't look so jumpy.—_

I wanted to growl back, but refrained, keeping the expression of concern on my face, mostly because it was real. God, I hoped I hadn't hurt her too much.

"Can I—stop by and see her?"

Jean began to nod, then suddenly frowned in thought.

"Of course, after lunch—she should be awake by then. Reminds me—I need to reschedule your appointment."

I was pretty sure God had just intervened directly on my behalf.

"Oh?" I nodded, trying not to look too eager, but Jean was frowning still, and the tell-tale shifting of her body in the seat—she didn't like it, whatever she had to do, and it was bothering her. This could mean a short-tempered Jean, never a fun thing. God, a short tempered telepath of any flavor couldn't be a good thing any way you looked at it.

"Some—tests to run." Interesting—she didn't have to tell me that. "In any case—"

I didn't hear the rest of the sentence, as my gaze over Jean's shoulder showed me Logan, rapidly approaching the table. I stood up so suddenly the other woman started.

"I—I'm sorry." I tried to think of a reason, but my mind was blank. Seven words. Logan. Coming. This. Way. Get. Out. NOW. "Excuse me, Dr. Grey. I—feel a little ill." Truth was, I did. My stomach was interested in rejecting the strawberries. I tried to negotiate with it as I took a step back.

"Marie?" On her feet as well, and Logan was closing in—oh thank God, a student stopped him for something. They were paused, talking, but I couldn't count on that for long. "You look pale. Are you—" One hand reached out dangerously close to my face and I backed off another stumbling step, almost tangling my feet in the chair I'd just left.

"Just—not used to eating this early." I spit the words out, still backing up—shit, how obvious did I need to be? Ororo's attention was on me now and I wondered how close I was to the edge of the dais and what my chances were of falling over. Farther down, Scott had looked up from breakfast and the red glasses were turning their full attention on me. Great, I had all kinds of attention now. Just exactly what I needed. "Thanks, Dr. Gre—Jean. I'll be by after lunch."

_—Just put up a sign.—_Carol advised acidly. —_An "I am uncomfortable and stay BACK" posterboard. Calm down. Look nauseated. Good girl.—_

Nauseated I could do—Logan was moving back toward the table and the clear hazel eyes fixed on me briefly.

For a second, there was no one else in the room. Logan took _*everything*_, always had to me, whether I wanted him to or not. Taking my sight, my hearing, soaking the scents around me until there was nothing left _*but*_ him. A sharp breath and I broke the lock and turned away, getting down off the dais without undue difficulty and feeling the curious gazes of the diners who had witnessed my frankly weird behavior and were wondering at it. Way to be inconspicuous there, Rogue. Good for you.

_—Cool down, Rogue. It's been years. He can't remember your face that perfectly.—_

An inner sigh from Logan made my stomach drop and I scurried from the dining room and leaned back against the doorway just outside, drawing in a deep breath.

No need for this. Being silly, definitely. Definitely.

Taking a chance, I ducked my head back in the room briefly, watching Logan sit down beside Jean, before his head jerked around in startlement. Catching the scent on the chair, where my hand had touched the table, all around him. Jean frowned, leaning over on one elbow to ask him something, then both sets of eyes went to the door I'd just exited.

I ducked back into the hallway and flattened myself against the wall, torn between outright paranoia and the knowledge that there was no way on earth that anyone could seriously think that Rogue had returned from the Great Beyond.

_—My scent, my face, it's been seven years. He's forgotten by now.—_

Logan was quiet inside for a moment.

_—No, darlin'. He'd never forget.—_

* * *

The short tour ended with Bobby being called away for some unspecified morning duty and left me seriously disturbed and left to my own devices until Scott found time to interview me for whatever purposes such an interview entailed. We'd gone over most of Mansion at record speed, then the grounds—nice, distant spots with an easy view of approaching people and upwind of the school, in case Logan's curiosity got the better of him. I wanted fair warning. Couldn't imagine how it would play out if we met face to face and he _*realized*_ who I was, but—sure as hell didn't want it happening like that, here.

I turned my attention back to scanning the porch area facing a nicely open yard that I could see all approachers long before they could see me. So, interview. I supposed it had something to do with my future here—what I wanted to do. 'Hey, Marie, how do you feel about being a nice little executioner or maybe joining up to wipe out human civilization on earth?' Nah, Scott would never be so crass. Maybe they needed a secretary. I was a good typist.

Leaning back in the wicker chair, I thought about what the tour had showed me. Which was, to wit, a truly scary number of parallels.

_—They remade the school the same. How the hell could they rebuild and make it *exactly* the same?—_ The same number of classrooms, unused now; the mobile blackboard Scott used for the Calculus class that always seemed to be in the hallway and likely to be tripped over; the hardwood floors and their myriad collection of rugs that looked the same, though most of Xavier's had been the expensive, handmade variety and I couldn't tell if these were the original or not, though God, they looked it. Frankly, I didn't want to know. It was nerve-wrecking enough to be aware that the memories of the X-Men were good enough to recall that there was always supposed to be a quarter-inch of space between the wall and the main hall rug. The rec room was as worn and welcoming as always—obviously still used often. When Bobby had jokingly challenged me to a game of foosball, I'd turned him down with a grin that I'd hoped hid the nervous shifting of my stomach.

I should _*not*_ have had breakfast. I was going to regret it before the day was done.

_—I mean, seriously, these people have memories like *nothing* I've ever seen before.—_

Neither of my inner voices answered, but then, they both were as completely floored as I was. Carol was less so, perhaps, simply because before her death, she hadn't spent any time at the Mansion, but Logan's reaction was predictable—he simply didn't discuss the issue. Always a good indication of Deep Logan Disturbance.

_—Notice the wainscoting, the flooring, the doors, even the damned hand-cut glass. If Bobby hadn't told me, I'd never have even guessed this wasn't the original.—_

_—They wanted to return to normality after the war.—_Carol answered, obviously trying to find the root of my unease. _—I don't see why you're reacting like this.—_

_—No, you don't understand.—_ I tried to find a comparison, rummaging through Carol's memories, rummaging through Logan's, and finding nada. Crap. —_Look, that's not natural. You can't—It's almost impossible to get the original back perfectly. I mean, me, I'm not the same person I was before I absorbed you. Some of the same characteristics, some of the same feelings, I'm still Rogue, but I changed. This is a home and a school, which by definition should be different, should embody change—and it's not. It's like they stuck this place in a time bubble to keep it pristine, to keep it the same. That's not natural, it's not normal; I mean, shit, even the GARDEN layouts are the same, but 'Ro at home is regularly redesigning them for change. But this place... There is no change.—_

There it was, my finger was pressed on the button.

_—This place is more home than home is. They made it a memory.—_

_—And what's wrong with that?—_

_—That's not life. That's not natural. That is concerted effort to keep something from happening.—_ Shit, I wasn't explaining this any better either. Giving up, I stretched a little and looked around, feeling oddly restless.

_—No training yesterday or today.—_Logan told me. —_You're used to the release.—_

He was right about that. I'd trained every day of my life since my eighteenth birthday, when Scott approved me for pre-team combat instruction. I was used to working out my frustrations and my energy, channeling them into positive destruction in the Danger Room or the practice ring.

"Marie Danvers, right?"

I came to startled attention, looking up into the smooth visor of my mentor and friend and teacher. Smiling down at me, he extended a friendly hand to pull me to my feet.

I drew in a breath and took it, irrationally reassured by the familiar strong grip. In the seconds it took to find my footing, I took him in. Sunstreaked dark brown hair was combed back neatly from his forehead, definitely longer than he'd ever worn it before, though ruthlessly trimmed into a fine straight line—Scott's anality tended to manifest in personal hygiene most strongly, though a close second had always been the pristine garage; in a plain yellow t-shirt and jeans, as if he was on his way to a class like any other morning in my life. A scar on one high cheekbone, just below the line of the visor—must have been old since it was nearly healed. I studied him as if he was a stranger, trying to figure out how to talk to him, how to approach him.

"Hi." —_Okay, should I know who he is?—_

_—Yes. He led the Resistance. You'll know.—_

"Mr. Summers." I said, feeling oddly off-center—not exactly an unusual feeling here, but not one I was enjoying either.

"Scott." A brilliant smile, his put-at-ease smile, one of the Three Good Ones that the teenage girls of the Mansion had always sighed over. I knew—I'd been one of them. Still was, and my heart did a quick mini-pitter as he stepped back, releasing my hand. "Just Scott. I'm sorry this took so long—we're in the middle of a project right now." I stiffened, knew I did, and hoped he didn't notice. "But now's as good a time as any. Has Erik given you a room assignment?"

"Yeah." Again, that personal name use, screaming immense amounts of unnatural intimacy that made me wonder what on earth had changed so radically in the interpersonal relationships of the X-Men. I fell into step beside him, trying to throw out casual glances, trying to feel the difference. There wasn't one.

I shivered a little and Scott did notice, coming to a halt as he opened the front door to lead me back inside.

"Are you all right?" All that warm sympathy—too much, too much like him. But the Scott Summers I knew would never have bombed a city—or cities, as the case might be. Of course, the Scott Summer I knew wasn't forced to watch his wife raped, feel her every scream and shudder, while being held down and asked questions he couldn't answer. He hadn't watched Xavier die and he'd never watched students tortured.

God, I hated how Kitty's memories filtered through my mind, sticky with leftover emotion. The assimilation process of what I'd received was almost complete. These were mine now, and I didn't want them. I didn't want these things crawling through my thoughts, even if I needed them to survive.

"Fine. Just—" I waved a hand in general, hoping he'd take it as just normal new-mutant confusion—well, of course he'd take it like that. And it wasn't even a lie, not really. I wondered why he didn't ask me about my little performance at breakfast and decided that he was putting it down to the same thing—new mutant reaction.

"It can be overwhelming," he agreed as we went down the bright, sunny corridors, and Scott smiled as he noted a broken tile in the foyer and pointed out the sad little dehydrated ivy clinging to life in the far corner. The light chat was designed to put me at ease, and even being aware of that, it did its job and I was smiling as we went down the office hallway.

He came to a pause at a large polished wooden door—his office door, I realized with a shock of recognition—and he opened it, ushering me inside with a gentleman's grace, giving me all those warm smiles, smiles I remembered from my first days at the Mansion as well. Slowly, I sat down on a high-backed chair that shouldn't be so familiar and waited for him to seat himself at his immaculate desk. The pens were arranged to the left by size and he still had the neatest workspace of anyone I'd ever met.

"Marie—Danvers, right?" He paused as he rifled absently through a set of folders in the inbox on the corner, pulling out one in what seemed like random chance and flipping it open. Looking over the information sheet, he gave me a long look—I supposed it was the sheet the nice people at the Salem Complex had written up for me. Please God, don't let there be a physical description. "Flying, strength, and invulnerability?"

"Yeah." I nodded quickly, lacing my fingers together, and I saw his gaze linger on my gloves. He didn't ask questions though—Scott Summers was sensitive to other people's feelings.

Like Lensherr the night before, he asked about my past and Carol helped me reconstruct what I'd told him, adding detail when necessary and forcing myself to memorize every word. With Kitty's memories, I was even able to elaborate on my camp experiences.

"Palm Beach." His voice was colorless. "Yeah." A pause. "I'm sorry—that was one of the last liberated."

I shook my head quickly.

"I don't—" God, he felt guilty. Shit. Move on, move on, move on, I didn't need to hear Scott Summers apologize to me for something I hadn't gone through. Palm Beach had been a random choice from Kitty's memories of the locations of the camps. "I—just moved after that. I didn't feel—comfortable—being out in the open."

He nodded sympathetically.

"Yes, I can understand that." Absently, his pencil began to tap against the wooden surface of the desk and I felt my fingers echo it against my knee—it was an addictive rhythm, always had been. "And then you decided to come here after the elections?"

Elections? Ah, one dollar bill. Got it. But—I did a rapid sort through Kitty and found it.

"Not exactly." Elections had been awhile back, soon after the end of the war while trying to return to a normal government—he was testing me. I wondered why. "I just—I was tired of being alone." I looked down, trying to elaborate, because I couldn't think of a reason.

"I don't mean to put you on the spot, Ms Danvers," Scott said quietly, and I watched as he took the pencil from between his fingers, gripping it tightly. "We've had—problems with some mutant groups. Reconstruction hasn't been easy."

_—Protests against the human camps.—_ Carol Danvers told me after her delve though Kitty's memories. —_A lot of groups don't agree with it.—_

And you know, I would have sworn that if anything like this happened, the X-Men would be the first to protest against it. At least the worry about infiltrators explained Betsy's and most especially Jean's mental probes the night before. Something in me relaxed—this wasn't normal behavior, they didn't just wander around reading people's thoughts at random. As a newbie, I was under suspicion.

_—The X-Men and the Brotherhood had been targeted specifically to be broken—Lensherr, Scott, Logan, Jean, Ororo, Bobby. Targeted for their profile, especially Jean.—_Carol said, pulling out Kitty's memories for me. One look and I dismissed the images quickly, focusing on Scott again.

No, Scott Summers would forgive so much, but not the torture of Jean. That I could definitely understand.

_—But this...—_

_—This is reconstruction, honey. We need more information, but my suggestion is you don't get it here. You don't need to be suspected of being an infiltrator on top of everything else. Be low-key.—_

Oh yeah. Definitely. I was _*not*_ interested in getting noticed. I was going to be the very epitome of low-key.

_—You know who I haven't seen? Sabretooth, Mystique, Toad, some of Lensherr's favorites.—_

It was an interesting thought. I leaned back into my chair, my boots kicking lightly at the legs as I considered that. Then I tilted my head, realizing Scott was watching me.

_—This wasn't accidental. The timing of this meeting.—_ I blinked, thinking. —_I'd take bets that Betsy and Jean both reported about their inability to get into my mind to him. Shit.—_

So I waited. Scott Summers glanced down at the paper, then back up, that same smile on his face.

"All right. I think that'll be all for now, at least for a few days." The project. Definitely. "Until then, decompress a little, decide what you want to do. Relax. Bobby's being useful?" There, a teasing grin. Wow. "And my door is always open if you need to talk. So feel free to use it, okay?"

That was a dismissal, and a graceful one at that. Relieved, I found my feet, smiling in gratitude before making for the door as Scott went back to work. Checking my watch, I noted the interview had taken an hour—I needed something else to do.

"...I think they'll all be here in time." Jean's voice drifted from down the hall, and if I hadn't had Logan's senses, I never would have heard it. Closing Scott's door behind me, I began to scout for a non-suspicious area to sit and look busy doing something. Hmm. Wish I'd grabbed a book. Seeing a bench against the wall that wasn't too far out of range, I quickly approached and sat down, then turned all my concentration to listening.

"...problems with retrieval?" Logan. Dear God. I did some quick mental calculations—if I was quiet, Logan wouldn't hear me, but I couldn't be equally sure of scent range. God, this was stupid—I was trying to _*avoid*_ him. Being caught out here would _*not*_ be a good thing.

_—Too many twists in this corridor—he'd have to know someone was here to start lookin', kid.—_ I nodded gratefully to Inner Logan and shut my eyes to concentrate.

"Betsy's going over to try and keep them under control. There are so many—too many, and we have every telepath available working on keeping them under control. We're going to have to hurry. I don't think we can afford to wait. Especially if the revolts continue. This has to happen now or not at all."

Revolts?

"How many?"

"All the remaining leaders you retrieved, five thousand seventy volunteers. I don't know how many others Erik is bringing in." A pause. "I don't like the odds. He has to have found a way to make the casualty rate lower."

"What's the current rate?"

"Same as it was on the Statue—twenty-five percent mortality. He says it will be lower this time, but the computer simulations aren't backing that up. I don't like it."

"I don't like our other options."

Jean sighed in frustration. I listened closer—they were getting to the very edge of my best current range.

"I know, I know. If it works—then this will be over faster. Much faster than waiting until we're recovered. But I—" their voices drifted further away, and I almost got up to follow.

Didn't though—my legs were frozen in place and my mind was rewinding and replaying the conversation

Leaders. Volunteers. Casualty Rate. The Statue.

Now I knew why they were risking Polaris in that machine.

* * *

Predictability was something to be cherished—so it fucked with my head, fair enough. The concept that they'd kept everything so much the same, that screwed with me, but it sure as hell made my little game of detective simpler.

_—And what reaction would you have had to a radically different Mansion, honey?—_

I thought about that as I went to the elevator. Carol had a good point.

_—Yeah, I know—but I wouldn't feel so creeped out. If they're going to go to the dark side, couldn't they—I don't know, like, act like it? You know, live in dark corners, twist metaphorical mustaches, be carelessly vicious? Act—weird?—_

God, that sounded silly. It was true though—I didn't like that Scott was as friendly as always and shook hands, and I liked even less that Bobby was being so kind and so warm. I wanted black and white, and I wasn't getting it.

Carol's low laugh wasn't comforting.

_—So you want a caricature of evil. Honey, it doesn't work that way. It's not often people think they are doing wrong when they are—trust me, almost everyone thinks they're on the right side. Those in power are the ones that get to *enforce* their vision of right. That's the only difference.—_

There had to be more to the right than that. It couldn't be just power.

_—How can they think this is right? There are *camps* and they are *using* people. Jean and Betsy tried to break into my mind. You're telling me they think they're *right*? This *wasn't* Xavier's dream, it never was.—_

_—Dreams change.—_ Slightly dismissive—arguing ethics with Carol was always an exercise in futility at best. If she and Logan in my head had one single burning thing in common, it was a highly-developed, bitterly cynical sense of self-preservation; fuck the right side. They'd never been believers in anything._ —Now go. You don't want to get caught out in the sublevels, not when they're suspicious of infiltrators.—_

I had to agree to that, little thought I liked it. I took a moment, searching my memory and Kitty's until I came up with the right code rotations. With trembling fingers, I punched it in, half-expecting the alarms to go off.

The doors opened with a decided lack of melodrama and I paused, almost in disappointment, before slipping inside and ducking into a corner, pushing in my level choice. I could do this. Be all secret-agent and so forth. No problem, I was Rogue. I'd dated premiere-thief Remy and I'd lived with premiere-thief Kitty and shoplifter extraordinaire Jubilee (all in their misspent youth, of course). I could do this.

Shit, I was afraid though.

When the doors opened, I slipped out and took a scent check—Scott and Jean and Logan had been upstairs, no problems there; I didn't smell the warm-furriness of Hank or the cool-fresh Ororo, but Lensherr was still unaccounted for. Breathing in the sterile scent of the tube-like hallway, I made my way down, glancing periodically at the doors to check for any other presences. The sheer lack of identifying scents was comforting—no one had been down this hall in at least a few hours.

_—I wonder if they still have Cerebro, now that the Professor is gone.—_

_—I'd think so. They still have Jeannie.—_

I frowned a little.

_—Jean always said she didn't have the control to use it properly.—_

_—She used it to find you on the Statue of Liberty.—_

I winced a little in memory—Jean had never talked about it, but Logan's memories supplied me with the aftermath of her desperate attempt.

_—Almost burned herself out too.—_

She'd been telepathically deaf for some time after that incident, though none of us had been aware of it, even me, not until years later when I overheard her and the Professor in an argument. She'd risked more than her telepathy though—I knew now that Cerebro could have destroyed her mind if she'd been just a little less determined, if her will had been just a little less strong. It took _*a lot*_ of concentration and power to control Cerebro.

_—That was then. Those little stabs into your mind weren't light, darlin', and they were deliberately placed. She's stronger. You felt it yourself.—_

No shit on that one.

Hmm. I glanced around, trying to think of where I wanted to go. The computers first—the secured ones, the ones most likely to give me a crash history lesson on the war. Kitty's memories simply weren't enough. And while Bobby was an excellent source of information, I needed to know what I _*should*_ know just as a survivor before I could start some serious interrogation, or I'd slip up and big time.

So if I was right, there was a computer in Jean's lab, a computer in the Danger Room, and one in conference room, all of which were restricted access and had database control. Lab—bad idea. Danger Room—don't think so. The conference room was only used for conferences and most of the people that would use it seemed pretty busy on other projects.

Conference room it was.

I counted off the doors, passing Jean's lab and two storage rooms, then paused at the conference room. It wasn't locked—only sensitive areas down here would be—so I ducked inside, glancing around at yet another example of people with too-vivid memories and a seriously disturbing obsession for detail, lingering on the holoprojector and the screen before I turned to the desk and sat down, looking carefully at the keyboard.

I dragged out Kitty's memories for her passwords and began to search the information available. Like all the computers in the lower levels, they were networked—Kitty had taken over the computer systems soon after her graduation in my world and explained the theory to me, and I figured it wouldn't be any different here. Sitting back, I peeled off my gloves and went to work. This was information, for the most part, that they wouldn't necessarily be trying to hide. Scott's love of detail—it would be here. Records, histories, everything.

With the press of a few keys, I had the database and began my search. It wasn't exactly comforting.

_—Razing of Atlanta, destruction of fourteen government research facilities. Liberation of the Daytona camp, the Memphis camp—shit. Look at the list, Scott was leading most of these.—_

I could feel Carol peering at the information over my shoulder—metaphorically speaking.

_—Interesting. Look at the dates. Scott got out a little over four years ago. Once he was out, the war actually began and was over in a year and a half. He must have done the organization.—_

_—If there's one thing Scott can do, it's this. He's a natural leader, a natural organizer. But I wonder...—_

_—Wonder what?—_

Frowning, I tapped a few more keys, bringing up a separate screen. Took a long breath.

_—Look at the layout of the current internment camps and human-restricted areas—they're keeping the locations the same. Ghettos, where mutants had to live after the first revisions of the MRA. Where they have humans stored up—how efficient. Except the Salem camp—that's new.—_ Frowning, I sat back, reading the beginning quickly. —_Got it. The machine worked—I wonder what was different? Mutation of the world leaders at that conference and apparently portions of New York City were affected as well; panic in Washington, forcing through the MRA with even stricter provisions. Required genetic tests for work, college, licensing—shit, they were forcing us into poverty and powerlessness.—_ It was easy to imagine Scott's reaction. He would have held off as long as he could, trying to find the legal way to do this, trying to find the loopholes.

There wouldn't have been any, though. Prejudice was good at plugging up the loopholes.

_—All any war needs is a catalyst, Rogue. You said it yourself.—_

_—Well, theoretical and practical application. I wonder if Scott and Jean knew they weren't just saving New York the day they rescued me—they were preventing a war.—_

_—Not to mention saving you.—_

I grinned a little bitterly, leaning back into my chair.

_—I was more important in death than I ever could have been in life, Carol. Face it, my value is how well I can be used, always has been.—_

_—You're not being fair to yourself.—_

I had to find that a little ironic from the woman who'd tried to kill me.

_—We're on the same side now—it's not as if I have a choice. I sink or swim on your survival.—_ Carol snorted softly. —_Keep reading. Maybe we can find something—oh God, Rogue.—_

I'd reacted seconds after she felt the information flood my mind, unable to tear myself from the cold facts scrolling across the screen.

_—Logan.—_

Carol faded a little as Kitty's memories catalyzed at my perusal of Logan's war record; a hundred scenes that Kitty had witnessed before she and Logan had escaped. All the filth a human mind could think of to do to a superhealer. I shut my eyes, but the memories played over in my head, a movie I couldn't turn off, and I heard my breath speed up, the hammering of my heart when I watched them hurt him in ways that had to have scarred his soul if not his body. A flash of black heat across one arm, the slice of something sharp across my abdomen and throat, collapsing in the grey-metal cell alone and waiting to see if they brought him back—oh God—God no....

_{—he was collapsed at my feet, and blood was making my hands slick when I tried to close the ruin of his abdomen, feeling intestines move under my fingers, and he should be dead, please let him die, please don't let him survive this, but it was healing, he was *healing* even *now*, but never enough, never all the way, God, they had his collar and they were....}_

_—Rogue?—_

The voices were faint, far away, and I stumbled to my feet, knocking the chair away and grabbing for the edge of the desk, trying to draw a clear breath, seeing everything Kitty had watched them to do him.

Feeling everything they did to her, condensed into a brief moment that sucked the air from my lungs.

Hate. Pure, unadulterated, rushing through me with a force that was energizing as I marked each face in my memory—if they weren't dead—if they weren't dead yet....

_—That is the way of it.— _Carol, stronger, and distantly, I felt her and Logan work together, pushing back the tide, blocking it in my psyche until the images slowly faded from their burn into my soul. —_That is the way of it, honey. That's how you become a believer. That's why there are camps and that is why Erik Lensherr runs an ideology, why a mutant Kelley runs a country, and why Scott runs a parody of Xavier's dream. Hate.—_

Shivering, I grabbed for the chair, the rush of adrenaline fading and leaving me cold. I blinked away the memories, finding my breath before I began to hyperventilate.

_—They tortured him.—_ The realization, the _*fact*_ of it was coating my mind. The difference between theoretical and practical. I didn't want to know this. —_All of them. Kitty, Scott...this is what they went through.—_

Carol's mental voice was unexpectedly gentle. She could easily understand this. —_Yes, they did.—_

_—I can't forgive—can't forget that.—_ I wanted to find them, hunt them down one by one. Let my memories guide me on my method of execution, slow and harsh and long, days and days I could drag it out, that was the way of it—

_—That's the way of it.—_ Logan's voice was rueful, even understanding. —_That's how you build a lie, Marie. Just believe it's true. That's all there is to it. Revenge is never pretty, it's never satisfaction, it's never peace. It's a way to get yourself as dirty as they are, it's bathing in filth and letting it cling to you. It scars you and changes you and it's never worth it. It'll never feel as good as you think it will. It's only good as long as the heat lasts, and it never lasts, darlin'.—_

This was a man who could hold a grudge for half a century.

_—You're not me. And I don't lie to myself 'bout what I'm doin'—I don't fool myself into believin' taking out those who fucked me over will do anything but lessen me.—_

_—If it were me—in those images...— _I trailed off at the rush of raw rage, staggering against the chair and closing my fingers over the edge, almost blacking out from the pressure in my head.

_—Every fucking one of them. Just like you said.—_ A pause, and slowly, too slowly, it began to cool and I could straighten again. —_But not their wives and kids and parents and friends. Not the people who went to school with them and deliver their mail. Not their species, not their world.—_

I let myself back down in the chair, residual tremors shaking my hands as I clasped them tightly in my lap.

_—Here...here you did. Their wives and their kids and their friends and their world. You, the X-Men...—_

Killers. I bit into my lip and felt the skin almost break under the pressure.

_—And that's not something I'm taking much comfort in, darlin'.—_

I nodded my blank acceptance—the emotional highs were leaving me drained, exhausted, utterly undone. I wanted to crawl into my bed and think—oh God no, I wanted to run and stop thinking—I wanted to—I wanted to—

_—That's not you, darlin'. Not this. Not them. Not a killer. Never.—_

I had believed that—now, I had to wonder.

_—Finish reading.—_ Carol told me softly. —_Finish up, honey. You've got a mission to complete. Let's do it and get out of here.—_

I nodded, numbly turning back to the computer to finish my history lesson, learn about the people who'd been my friends—how my death had created this.

* * *

The garden was beautiful and silent, Bobby sitting less than a foot away, watching me with quiet interest. I wasn't up to being social.

It was sick curiosity that had driven me to look for one more thing—just to see. Maybe I hadn't believed they'd still be there. But they were—long, neat rows of glass cases holding the uniforms of the X-Men.

That final nail, that tiny straw I didn't need at all, and why the hell had I stopped by there anyway?

They still had the uniforms, and I'd stared at them for an endless moment of pure shock, everything snapped completely out of focus. Completely. Absolutely. They had the uniforms of the X-Men and it looked like—dear God, they were still being used.

They'd set up chain-link camps with razor wire and humanity was locked behind fences or into inner city ghettos that couldn't be much better. But they still wore the uniforms of the people who followed Xavier's dream. I'd spent ten minutes staring at Scott's, barely caring if anyone caught me down there—he had to know the difference. He had to. When he put on that uniform at home, he wasn't Scott Summers or a mutant-rights activist or a man—he was a superhero, a defender of innocents. A _*leader*_. What the _*hell*_ was it to him in this place?

I could handle so much, but those uniforms in their cases just froze everything.

"I wanted to see if you wanted me to supervise your evaluation tomorrow."

"Sure," I answered a little blankly. I should eat something. Me and the fruit had parted company the second I'd gotten out of the sublevels and into the downstairs bathroom down the hall from the former Calculus classroom. I'd been lucky to get that far. The banana was still in my pocket, but even the idea of it sent my stomach rolling again and I covered my mouth with my hand.

"Great." A big smile. "It'll be fun."

What?

I turned my full attention on Bobby, blinking at the sight of the clear blue eyes filled with afternoon sunshine. God, he was beautiful. God, I'd just agreed to something that maybe I shouldn't have.

"Evaluation?"

He patted my arm lightly, almost a squeeze.

"Nothing to worry about. Three Danger Room scenarios, one hand to hand, to evaluate your combat experience and your control of your powers. Don't worry—we have training available for almost anything you can do. I'll make a report after I've seen you fight and place you in class."

He was going to—fight me. Oh, this couldn't be good.

I blinked, opening my mouth and trying to find something to say that would completely contradict my yes as well as not seem suspicious. Nothing emerged that sounded vaguely believable. And by now, Carol and Logan were so utterly beyond words annoyed with me that they didn't even bother to comment.

"Logan usually does the evaluations, but since he's working on the project, he probably doesn't have time," Bobby continued, in blissful innocence of my appalled shock. "Don't worry—I'm qualified to place you."

So my other choice would be Logan. Okay, I was officially in the Bobby-camp. I was Rogue, after all—I outclassed most living mutants, so beating him wouldn't be a problem. Psis couldn't easily get into my mind; very little could pierce the invulnerability of my body. I didn't age at anywhere near normal rate (as far as Jean's tests could ascertain), and I could fly. Throw in the skin, I could kill anyone and anything at all if I needed to, take their mutations as my own. Bigger plus—I'd been trained by some of the best combat experts in the world before I'd ever absorbed Carol's gifts.

Sort of disturbing, come to think of it. But Bobby's evaluation would not be a problem—just ignoring the skin thing. Which was going to be tricky as hell to get around—he _*was*_ going to touch me if we went head to head, and unless I wanted to climb into something out of a BDSM video, there were going to be problems.

On the other hand—biggie indeed—Logan would know something was off the second he got my scent. And yes, he was different in this world, granted—but I suspected his natural paranoia would not stand me in good stead. He'd prod until he figured out _*why*_ the scent was so familiar, and I couldn't count on him dismissing out of hand the idea that a New Rogue had somehow gotten herself tossed over here, no matter how much I wanted to. He'd seen shit I couldn't even begin to imagine, things that when I sorted them in my head, I still had trouble believing.

_—Thanks, darlin'.—_ Logan did irony well.

_—Don't start, sugar.—_

But—But I may need Logan for this world—it was getting clearer every second I was here that I couldn't do this alone. I needed help, and God knew, my options for it were whittled down to—one.

_—Marie...—_

So Logan wasn't completely on-board with the plan. Well, if he had a better one, I'd love to hear about it.

"Hey Bobby, Marie." I squinted into the general west, from where the voice originated, raising a hand to shield my eyes as Scott emerged into view from the other side of the house. There were grease stains on his otherwise immaculate shirt and his hands, while clean, had grime worked in under the nails. All unconscious, I smiled, remembering when he taught my shop class and we ducked our heads into a car's engine so he could teach me about the properties of a internal-combustion motor. Watching him rub his fingers into his jeans absently, I laughed softly.

He'd always hated getting grease under his fingernails.

"Hey, S-sir," I answered, catching Bobby rise from the corner of my eye.

"You finished?" Faintly excited, and Scott grinned.

Finished with what?

"For now, anyway." Absently, Scott rubbed his hands on his denim-clad leg again and shook his head briefly, careful not to dislodge his visor. I could see the cling of grease to the ends of some of his hair under the sunlight, drawing fine black lines on his forehead. "Your car should be ready by tomorrow." Ah. Bobby's car. He and Jubes should never, ever have been given licenses. Their vehicles tended to spend a lot of quality time in the garage. "What are you two up to?"

Bobby shrugged with elaborate casualness, and Scott relaxed onto the bench in front of us, running a hand carefully through his hair. Missed the grease, though.

"Just setting up Marie's evaluation, sir."

Scott's eyebrows arched over his glasses.

"You talk to Logan yet? He's the one that'll place her in class level..." Scott trailed off, apparently reading something in Bobby's face. I wished my angle of observation was better, because hell if I knew exactly what that was he saw there. "Suit yourself." A wide smile, before he flicked his gaze to me. "Marie, are you settling in well?"

I tried to think of a way to answer that truthfully. Yes, no, I'm in shock, thanks. Probably _*not*_ a good idea.

"It's still very—new, sir." There, that sounded reasonable. Not too bad, Roguey.

"Scott."

"Scott. Thanks for—for everything." I wanted to ask if he still had the name Cyclops but decided against it.

"No problem." Absently, he stretched slightly, then stood up. "Jean asked me to take you down to see Kitty after lunch." I blinked, realizing that it was well-passed noon, probably edging toward two. Shit, I'd been in the sublevels longer than I thought. "If you're ready—"

"Oh yes." Ooh, maybe shouldn't have shown such naked enthusiasm there. I felt my face heat at Bobby's start and Scott's slightly surprised glance, before the older man rose gamely. "I mean, thanks. I was worried about her."

The visored eyes looked into me for an endlessly long moment, before he nodded slowly. I wondered what was going through his mind.

"All right. Come on."

It was a quick walk to the lower levels, mostly in silence—Scott wasn't a talker and I wasn't feeling terribly chatty myself. In the lab, Kitty was still sleeping, her head bandaged, and I tried to feel more righteous about the fact I'd given her a concussion. Granted, I'd had to—but still...

_—You aren't getting a guilt trip, are you? Shit, Rogue, you just want to march up to Magneto and apologize for damaging one of his pets and volunteer for the project yourself?—_

Okay, that was extreme sarcasm, even for her.

_—Don't fucking start with me, Carol. I hurt her.—_

_—She'll live. You're safe, and now you have some concrete memories to work with. This was a win-win situation. You think anyone is going try to touch you without your permission when you took out Kitty for waking you up?—_

I hadn't thought of that.

_—So think of it now, honey.—_

I watched Kitty for a few more minutes, then turned away, surprised to see Scott's steady gaze still fixed on me. I tried not to twitch under it. His instincts were too good, and he read body-language better than even Logan did. He'd figure something was up.

"She's gonna be okay, right?"

Scott's head tilted in thought, then he shook himself and nodded quickly.

"She'll be fine. Probably wake up later. Come on." Scott pushed the door open for me and let me back into the hall, where I looked curiously around, as if I didn't know every single inch of this floor far too well. "Bobby didn't include this in the tour?"

"Nope." I smiled up at Scott winningly.

_—Go gently, Rogue.—_ Carol's voice was suddenly very serious. —_He's suspicious.—_

Well, no shit. I could smell that from ten feet away. Every reason to be, too—I'd shown up close to the newest pet project and took out one of his team members. I waited as he glanced around, probably trying to decide whether to give me a tour or wait on that until one of the resident telepaths could perform some serious scanning and find out what I was here for.

"You spent time in the south?" he asked, as he let the door close and led me down the hall back to the elevator. Choice number two, get the newbie away from the cool stuff. Smart guy. I thought about his question carefully. It didn't seem casual.

_—Do I still have an accent?—_ Except for my extended vowels under stress, seven years in New York had cleared the heavy drawl of Mississippi from my voice.

Carol snorted.

_—Not much, honey. There's something in the south that's worrying him, I'll bet. Pockets of human resistance, maybe? Mutants not thrilled with the status quo?—_ Carol snickered softly and I found myself echoing her silently. —_Not that I can see why. This isn't bad, you know. For mutants.—_

She would think so. Of course, she _*had*_ been Brotherhood, and I'd bet anything if I went back home and asked Erik what his dream world would be like, it might very well resemble this.

_—Pockets of mutants against all this crap?—_

_—Isn't that a unique thought. And you being a mutant who is against all of this crap, the logic.—_

Sometimes she could be a bitch. I tuned her out and realized we were standing in front of the elevator and Scott was giving me those long looks that made me wonder yet again what other people saw when I went into Internal Conversation Mode.

"A few times—Mississippi, Alabama. I moved around a lot." True. Very true. I had visited most of the deep south states and the entirety of the east coast during my misspent year as a hitchhiker, not to mention my vacations in Louisiana with Remy. "Bobby said this used to be a school." When in doubt, change the subject.

"Yes, it was, and will be again. We're reopening the school soon—there's a lot of children who lost their chance to finish their education during the war. For now, we've focused on training."

Combat, of course. Get these kids ready for another war, if necessary. I had strange and uncomfortable visions of Scott calmly explaining the fastest way to kill, instructing them on the finer points of bomb-making, going over tactical simulations and showing the students one by one how their powers could be lethal. With a start, I realized the memories were Kitty's, and shifted uncomfortably, trying to find something to say.

"Oh? You're a teacher?"

"I was." A slight shadow crossed over his face, so quickly that if I hadn't been looking directly at him, I would have missed it. I wasn't quite sure how to define what I read there, not for the first time hating that his eyes were always hidden. He could keep the most perfect facade of equanimity of anyone I'd ever met, just using that visor. Reading him was all body language, all intuition, and I'd sometimes wondered if his mental link with Jean was just so his wife could figure out what was going on in his head when there was no possible way to read it in his face.

"What subjects?" I asked as he punched in the codes.

"Mathematics, English—shop, sometimes."

He'd hated teaching English, and when we'd gotten a permanent English teacher, he'd thrown himself out of the class with such naked enthusiasm that the rest of us had been tempted to follow him. More time to indulge himself with advanced mathematics that only he and Hank could possibly understand, work on engines all hours of the day and night, and spend serious quality time in the garage debating engine mechanics at the top of his lungs with Logan, who had specific ideas on the subject that rarely meshed with those of the Fearless Leader.

So the rest of us students had hung out around the garage when that happened and had tried not to get caught. It'd always been better than a prizefight.

"Did you finish high school?"

Actually, got a bachelorate, but why did I think that info probably wouldn't fit very well into this world?

"Yes." Here. You taught me to conjugate verbs, differentiation in Calculus, and engine repair. Ethics too, but I'm guessing that's not your specialty now. Wrapping my arms around myself, I watched the doors open, Scott pausing briefly to glance inside before ushering me through with his usual excellent manners, and as he turned around, I saw the scar crossing the back of his head, just below the hairline. Thick white tissue crawled just above the spinal cord, over the skin that protected the bundle of nerves of the brain stem, but the fall of his hair completely covered it within seconds.

"How'd that—" I bit my tongue. Oh stupid, how the hell do you _*think*_ he got it? Scott half-turned and I knew, with a sudden sick certainty, that there were worse on his body. Much worse.

"Hmm?"

Absently, I noted how his back wasn't to the elevator door—a half turn, just enough to see me and keep an eye on the door. Interesting. Gentlemanly manners concealing a dislike of turning his back on a threat. Reminded me of Logan, who always kept a secure wall to his back and stayed within six feet of any possible exit.

"—that you teach three different classes? Short on teachers?" Whew. And I mean, whew. Good save there, Roguey-girl.

He smiled a little and I stepped back, trying to watch him and take in the New Scott Summers. I hadn't seen anything in his fluid walk or movements to tell me if he'd been injured in other ways. Of course, it'd been years since he was in the camps, and Jean was a doctor, so she probably had fixed what she could when they got out. Maybe that on the skull was about it.

Shit, I wished. I'd seen Kitty's mind.

"Very short on teachers. We recruited where we could, before the war. We're doing so now, actually."

I smirked a little.

"I couldn't teach if my life depended on it, so don't even think about it."

That got me a grin, a real grin that seemed to light up his face, and he shook his head, that little oil-slicked strand brushing backward and clinging to the rest of his hair. The doors opened and Scott took a step to glance out briefly before he ushered me out.

_—Reconnaissance.—_ Logan would know that._ —Checking for enemies. I'll bet this place has security unlike *anything* you're used to. Listen to the buzz just below normal hearing—that's video monitoring. And I'll bet that there's weaponry scattered everywhere through here, not to mention technology that constantly scans the perimeter and all sensitive areas.—_

Interesting. And slightly panic inducing—hadn't I been wandering around the sublevels earlier? Crap, that might be on tape. Someone might have seen me.

Before I could work myself up into a serious froth, I reconsidered. If they'd seen me live on tape downstairs, they'd already have me in for questioning. Nothing about these people was telling me they'd be subtle—if Betsy and Jean were willing to scan me on first acquaintance, then they _*weren't*_ going to wait and see what I did. So okay. Maybe the sublevels weren't monitored as heavily, since they were restricted access anyway.

_—How would you know?—_I asked, addressing Logan's comment on the security issues of the Mansion itself.

_—Who was called paranoid at the last meeting with Xavier back home, darlin'?—_

Ah, yes. Got it. I grinned a little as I waited for Scott to come out.

"Is there anything I need to be—doing or something?" I asked awkwardly as we seemed to start a trek in the general direction of his office. Maybe he had more questions. Scott paused his stride, tossing me a glance.

"Bored?"

I shook my head.

"Just feeling—loafish."

That earned me a laugh and a long look that I couldn't interpret. He began to say something when he frowned at something over my shoulder, and I turned my head to catch Bobby barreling down the hall toward us, reminding me irresistibly of an eager puppy chasing a bright red ball.

"FoH activity in Virginia, sir." Sir? I stepped back a little, giving them space but trying to keep close enough to figure out what's going on.

_—Anyone but me find it slightly annoying that the Friends of Humanity really are the cockroaches of the planet? Shit, what does it take to make them die?—_ I sighed, then remembered not to draw attention to myself. Luckily, the boys were in Combat!Mode and had forgotten all about the noncom listening in on them from less than a foot away.

"—I'll be ready in five." Scott dismissed Bobby, who was already turning toward the elevator, when he paused, blue eyes searching Scott's face.

"Extermination procedures?"

What?

"Yes. I'll be down in a moment." The red gaze was fixed back on me and I tried to look uninterested. "You're not loafing, you're decompressing." A quick, strained smile—he wanted to be downstairs and be Leader-like. Got it. "If you get bored, repaint the Mansion while we're gone. Something in sky blue should work."

Scott Summers and weird humor. I giggled and Scott touched my shoulder lightly, ignoring the automatic stiffening of my body, before meeting Bobby at the elevator. Overhead, I heard the alarms going off and turned in a slow circle, blinking in shock.

_—Alarms? But—_

_—They probably learned the value of being prepared, darlin'.—_

I'd say so. Those things were loud enough and high enough to drive Logan up the wall. I wasn't doing much better.

"Marie?" St. John, right behind me and _*definitely*_ in my personal space. I jumped (a very little though) and turned to face him, trying not to look as startled as I felt.

"Yeah?"

"Come on—while the first team's gone, we're on alert."

That was interesting.

"What's that?"

"Second team goes on alert, defenses go on full lockout. Stay inside the Mansion, no non-team members outside, and stay near exits to underground." St. John blew out a breath in exasperation at my blank look. "Of course Bobby would forget to explain this. Stay with me, all right?"

Why did I get the impression that St. John wasn't inviting me along spontaneously? Dollars to donuts, Scott was having me watched. Nice job, Leader. A little late, but nice job.

"You're second team?" I asked as I fell into step beside him. There was something faintly different about him now. I'd never seen St. John in command before—he'd always shirked the very concept, with a witty phrase and a fade into the background that never seemed anything less than smooth and logical and you'd forget minutes later what you were going to ask him.

"You got it." A pause, blue eyes giving me a sharp look. "You're really not used to this, are you?"

No shit, Sherlock. And should I be?

"Interesting life you must have had on the outside before you got here—you'll have to tell me about it sometime."

Okay, that was weird.

"Sure," I said finally, not sure what he wanted me to say. Then I looked around—there definitely was a tension in the air that I could almost taste, and below the alarms, the normal sounds of Mansion life had dribbled down to nothing. "Um...what do I do?"

"As long as we're inside, it doesn't matter." For the first time, I noticed St. John had one of the comm units in his ear, tiny and almost invisible. Scott had just started using those at home. Seeing my gaze, he smiled. "I take reports from here. It's just rounds, checking security. No one's tried to attack the Mansion in a year or so—we should be fine."

A _*year*_?

"You mean, the first team might have been called away as a distraction?"

"Yes." A slightly tight look. "It happened once. We had to rebuild the east wing."

They'd rebuilt it identical twice.

"Okay." We'd started walking and I struggled for conversation—St. John Allerdyce wasn't far famous for his talkativeness, after all. "Bobby's first team?"

I got an odd look—shit, shouldn't've mentioned old Bobby.

"We vary team composition depending on the situation. Kitty, Piotr, Remy, and Kurt are on second today too." I tried to look blank on the last three names—after all, I hadn't met them. "Come on—I want to do a perimeter run, and if you're thinking of joining, you'd probably like to see it."

Actually, I would like to see it, whether or not I was planning to join anything.

The perimeter sweep was both thorough and familiar. I could see an interesting blend of Scott and Logan in it—quasi-military, but slightly variated for use in a civilian compound. In some of the interior rooms, I could faintly hear voices and activity—I had to guess that's where the other residents were restricted during alerts. Watching Johnny listen intently to the comm as he walked the corridors, giving short orders that didn't mean much to me, the sheer routine efficiency—this had to happen often.

After several minutes of silence, St. John and I came to rest near the kitchen entrance, where he rummaged through the refrigerator and produced two sodas, neatly placing one on the table in front of me.

"Thanks."

A shrug for my trouble as he popped his soda, drinking it thoughtfully, eyes scanning the kitchen.

The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable—but the silence around us was beginning to grate on my nerves. I wished—

"You st—smoke?" Raised eyebrows greeted my choppy question—was I actually gonna say _*still*_?

_—Why yes, you were, honey.—_

I wished Carol would leave me the hell alone for a few minutes—I didn't need a committee vote on my own thoughts right now.

"Yes." A rummage through his pockets before he produced a slightly crumpled pack—and he pulled out two, tossing me one and cupping a hand around it when I raised it to my lips. It flared into life and I drew in a breath of smoke. Cigarettes had never been favorites, but under stress, I was used to absconding with a cigar and a fifth of whiskey and heading to the roof, sometimes not alone. I grinned a little in memory, letting the familiarity of having a cigarette with Johnny soothe my nerves.

St. John straddled the chair beside me, pushing his sleeves above his elbows as he lighted his cigarette, and I noted the line of needle-scars at the juncture of his elbow and down his forearm. Older scars—in a few more years, or if he had lighter skin, I wouldn't be able to see them at all, but the rich tan was revealing the vivid white in sharp relief.

Kitty's memories would tell me where he got those. I decided that, for now, I didn't want to know.

"So you like it here so far?"

I sighed without even meaning to, catching myself quickly and giving him an apologetic grin. Resting my fingers on the worn kitchen table, I focused on the vase of freshly-cut flowers in the center—had to be Ororo's touch. She'd always been fond of filling the house with the smell of whatever flowers were in season.

"Sorry. I get asked that a lot. I'm fine. It's nice here." Creepy, but nice. Just like home, in all the ways that tended to do a number on my head. St. John nodded, taking another drag before picking up his soda.

"It's natural—a lot of people come here pretty paranoid. As mutants go, you're pretty well-adjusted."

That told me things I seriously didn't want to know about post-war mutant psychological health, and I took another pull from my cigarette to hide my reaction.

"Thanks," I mumbled over the smoke, trying to think of a way to turn the conversation somewhere else. No inspiration was coming very fast. It figured. "I'm glad I came."

"You've been here before."

I didn't choke on my soda, one of the greatest accomplishments of my life to date. Logan and Carol were suddenly up close and personal in my head and the pressure was startlingly intense.

_—Careful.—_

_—You think?—_

Holding my soda, I leaned back in my chair.

"I knew about the school." Better go with partial honesty—I wasn't going to get caught up in a lie now. "From other mutants."

"Hmm." Nothing else for a few minutes. "You know the place pretty well already." He gave me a slight smile, but it didn't hide the suspicion in his eyes. Well, it was hard to walk around home and pretend you weren't familiar. I wondered how I'd slipped up.

_—Fishing.—_Carol hissed.

_—No joke. Gimme a second here.—_

"The school is pretty well known," I answered, leaning back into my chair with careful casualness. "Homebase to the mutants and all that jazz." I took a moment to let him process that.

"It is that. I lived here before I started college," St. John answered, turning his attention to his cigarette.

"Where'd you go?" My Johnny was USC all the way, but—

"NYU." A pause. "One of the deans' daughter was a mutant. He faked our gene tests through." Slightly wistful. "I wanted to go to USC, but—" A shrug that could have meant anything. I nodded, sipping the soda. "Anyway, the war began and everything changed."

"Yeah," I answered, remembering the information I'd gleaned from the database. The first organized rebellion against the restrictions of the MRA, when seventy-nine gamma-class mutants had refused to do a gene test. They'd been cited for illegal terrorist assemblage and arrested. Opening salvo—they'd never been found, and their names were inscribed on a memorial in Washington DC that Sen—President Kelley had ordered erected his first day in office. The destruction of Xavier's school had been next.

The wholesale arrest of mutants and, later, sympathizers and family members suspected of being carriers of the gene, had happened soon after. I bit my lip, studying St. John over my cigarette. I'd never known anything about his family before—it made me wonder if he'd lost them during the war.

"So you lived here before the war?"

Tipping forward, he picked up his soda, regarding me calmly over the lid.

"No. I was born in Australia, actually—but I've been in the US since I was twelve and here since I was thirteen." He shrugged. "Manifested here during vacation, parents took it badly and forgot to pick me up before making for the airline."

Fuck. I hadn't known that. Covering my reaction, I took another sip of my soda—Johnny had never talked about his past. Standard operating procedure for mutants, true, but—but I'd never asked. The most I knew was from Carol—he'd spent close to a year with her before Xavier had picked him up and Carol made a run for the Brotherhood operatives and pretty much disappeared from sight.

Now I had to wonder why I hadn't ever asked him about his childhood, or anything at all. Mutants were private at the best of times, but seven years of friendship should have counted for something. I should have asked.

"You ready for another sweep?" he asked as I finished the cigarette in the quasi-comfortable silence between us. Grabbing the ashtray, I stubbed out the butt and took a last drink of soda, nodding.

"You're really nice, to let me tag along," I told him—and meant it. St. John gave me an indecipherable look, but there was amusement in it, definitely.

"Always a pleasure, Marie." He straightened, tossing his can away. "Come on—I'll show you the outside sweep patterns."

I stared down into my soda, feeling that piercing gaze—every instinct coming up on full alert.

"Sure," I answered slowly, staring at my can. I had to talk to Logan. That was all there was to it.

_—Yeah.—_To my surprise, Inner Logan was thoughtful—I'd expected an empathic no, and it was almost a let-down that he didn't respond as I'd expected.

_—Why'd you change your mind?—_

His hesitation was obvious and stretched out for so long I almost thought he wasn't going to answer. All this morning and early afternoon flashed across my memory—every look, every question, and now Johnny, who was smiling at me beneath eyes that were fishing for something.

_—Instinct, darlin'.—_

And that's all the answer I got. Truthfully, that was all the answer I really needed.

* * * * *

It was easy enough to find a car once the teams returned—Kitty, in our room, was less nervous around me than I expected and was even cautiously sympathetic to my "bad nights", as she labeled them. I got the distinct impression she had some of her own—the bits of her I caught floating in my head confirmed it. With some guilt, I asked her if there was a way I could get into the city to look up someone, and she paused in surprise.

"In the camp?" The slightest wrinkling of her nose, before she cleared her expression and waited for me to answer. I sensed edges of suspicion there as well. These people made me look easy-going in the paranoia department.

"No, in the restricted zone—someone who knew my sister." I paused, dragging up the information I'd pulled off the computer and hoping this would work. The restricted zone was where the non-locked-up humans got to live, lucky things. I hadn't seen it yet, but I was pretty sure I didn't want to. "She died early on, but there's so little information. I traced a name of a...a collaborator who was stationed at the facility she—died in. I wanted to know..." Know what? How she died, if it hurt, how the _*hell*_ did you kill someone invulnerable, because seriously, that would be information I'd need to know. Jean and Hank had never found my weakness yet, and we'd run every test in the book. Off-subject thought there though—I met Kitty's eyes and saw her nod, eyes softening and growing large and possibly wet. I didn't want to make her cry.

"Yeah. I lost my parents," she murmured. "Here—take my car. Scott said yours was stolen in Salem?"

I nodded and made up my mind to get a look at that report the Reherr had assembled on me. I was getting the distinct impression it was something I _*seriously*_ needed to see.

Handing me her keys, she gave me a description, and I was a little surprised she didn't offer to go along with me—weren't they watching me? Good question, I needed to watch for that. With a smile and a thanks, I left our room and tucked the keys in my pocket, heading down the stairs without running into anyone else, and glad to see that the dinner was holding most of the population hostage. So meatloaf wasn't my favorite in any universe—it didn't count as food as far as I was concerned. Maybe I could find that McDonald's after all. My stomach twisted a little at the thought of food and I remembered I still had the banana tucked into my pocket. Even the thought made me a little nauseated.

Okay, so no food.

Stopping on the porch, I took a deep breath in sudden realization—I didn't know where Logan lived. I knew he didn't live on campus—even this Logan would need privacy and space, which was convenient, but to find out where, I'd have to follow him. I didn't even try to fool myself into believing that I could do so without him catching me, either, and while theoretically, it didn't seem like a problem if he caught me and asked me what the hell I was doing and I revealed who I was—I wanted to do this somewhere fairly far away from the Mansion and its inhabitants.

Instinct I trusted, and it said, get him alone and preferably a good distance from the X-Men.

While searching out the car in the garage, I reconsidered how I was going to go about doing this. Following Logan home was out, talking to him here was out, so I needed an option three—which would be, who would know where Logan lived. And how I could get that information. Scott would know and Logan's second would know—if Logan headed security on campus, he left his second in charge for nights and kept a cell-phone or home phone number on call. Very Logan, same as at home. Surely, someone knew where he lived—with his position, Scott, Logan's second, and Magneto, definitely. Jean, possibly. The information wouldn't be in the computers, but—

—but phone records would have what I needed.

Turning back around, I jogged back to the Mansion. Scott's office would be ideal, but also probably a secure area, and I didn't know enough about their security systems to bypass. I knew procedure, however—Scott was Scott in any universe. The house accounts were kept separately from the regular, and I tripped into the small, musty, non-secure office off the kitchen because, really, who wanted to steal or spy out grocery receipts?

Organization—Scott's great forte. I grinned as I ran my fingers over the files, then plunked down on the desk by the computer. Color coded. Scott's special arrangement. The good things sometimes stay the same.

Going through the files, I searched out the phone records and flipped through the pages, looking over the numbers called. Night would be most likely for a call to go through, so I focused there and pulled out several with prefixes I recognized. So far so good. Dozens of different local numbers—but if Logan lived in the city, I needed to narrow. At home, he'd had a place in Manhattan—

—and at least fifty calls within the last month at midnight and four to the same phone number. In Manhattan. Clockwork, very organized, military precision—very Logan.

I pulled it out and grinned to myself.

We had a winner.


	4. Interlude 2: The Choice

_"...it [is] no longer a matter of opening others to reason, but of opening ourselves to the reason of others."_   
_—Alain Finkielkraut, The Defeat of the Mind_

* * *

_ **August, six years earlier** _

Scott took a few minutes to observe from the garage door as Logan ran Jubilee through her review before her shop final. Why on earth she'd chosen the class was probably traceable back to Logan, who, after one single driving lesson, had flatly refused to let her behind the wheel of a car again until she understood the principle behind the concept of an internal-combustion engine and the basics of car repair. Having seen the wrecker that brought the unfortunate car into the driveway, Scott hadn't demurred, either—if she was going to drive like that, she'd better know how to fix any vehicle she drove. God knew, she'd need it.

He hid a smile when Jubilee stuck out her tongue and Logan applied his foot to the board, spinning her back under the car and leaning over the engine again.

"Wolvie, I don't see—"

"Any way you could _stop_ calling me Wolvie?"

Scott knew Jubilee's face was wearing a smug grin. She knew her feral mutant pretty well.

"Nope, hombre. And I—"

"Get to it. You and Kit want dinner out tonight, you're gonna finish this right." Logan was leaning against the car and Scott _could_ see the smile on Logan's face. Sometimes, Scott thought the only reason Logan was still around was because of Jubilee and Co—and Scott admitted to himself, at least, that it was good for the kids to have what amounted to a father stalking campus. He didn't scare them at all—but they did have a healthy respect for his temper and his common sense, and knew they couldn't get away with much around him. Certainly not when he could smell out contraband and usually figure out where they'd been after curfew by scent alone.

"You want something, Cyke?"

Scott didn't even bother to bristle—in Loganesque, the term could almost be an endearment.

"Just wanted to talk, when you have time." He'd put it off for two days, wanting the kids to have a little more grace time, but it couldn't be for much longer. Logan needed to know first—and maybe he put it off for Logan too, who had achieved what amounted to be stability of temperament with his nearly-permanent residence at the Mansion. That was about to end—and he hated the fact that it had to.

But a year's grace was more than either Scott or the Professor had expected. Far less, however, than they'd needed.

Logan turned, looking back at him—probably checking his scent over the conflicting odors of grease and brake fluid, to see how necessary the interruption was. Then growled something, before crossing to the side of the car, getting a foot on the board, and rolling Jubilee out.

"Can you finish up without me bein' here nagging you?" he asked. Jubilee looked up, a little surprised, eyes wide, then glanced quickly at Scott before nodding.

"Sure, Wolvie." A pause, then she raised herself on her elbows. "If you're busy, Kit and I—"

"Never mind that. I'll come get you at six, 'kay? Just be ready." Grabbing a rag off the car, Scott watched Logan wipe a smear of oil from Jubilee's face, then brush a quick kiss across her forehead. Logan was one of those happy rare souls who didn't have much of a problem with personal space or public displays of affection, at least with the kids. Or Jean, for that matter, but at this point, that thought just made Scott grin. "Get done and cleaned up, kid. I'll lock up later." With that, he stood up, pushing the board back under, then wiped his hands clean before facing Scott.

He had a strange feeling Logan knew exactly what he was about to tell him, and leaned against the door, waiting as the older man grabbed his overshirt off the car and pulling it on.

"Well?"

Scott motioned him to follow and they walked in companionable silence toward the grassy soccer field, while Scott tried to decide how to break the news—just straight out, he supposed. Logan preferred things unvarnished. So did Scott, truth be told.

"The revisions to the MRA are going to pass." Scott watched Logan closely, caught the flicker of the hazel eyes—yes, he'd been ready for this. Logan had listened to the back-up plans if the lobbying failed.

"You know the revised provisions?"

Scott almost spat as he thought of them.

"Required genetic testing for school admission, jobs, and any federally funded program. Passport revocation for mutants, ID for cross-state moves, and licensing for living in non-mutant-designated areas." Ghettos was a word for it. If he was being generous.

"Property rights dissolved?"

"We're not staying to find out." Scott came to a stop, fixing his gaze on the copse of trees in the distance. "Bobby and St. John already have their registration complete at NYU—the semester starts in two weeks, and they've been cleared as fully human. They should be fine. Piotr, Ororo, and you are exempt under foreign citizenship status, but there's a good chance you will get your visas revoked as soon as the revisions are passed. Dani and Proudstar are going to ground in the reservations—we received the confirmation yesterday."

Logan snorted softly—Scott had never noted Logan was particularly sensitive to issues of law.

"Who do you want me to take?"

"Hank, Kurt, Fred Dukes, and Rasputin for now. Kitty's not MRA registered, but we don't have the contacts at MIT to get her clear of the gene tests, so we can't risk her starting college this fall. Jubilee wasn't going anyway—"

Logan snorted something and Scott forced down the smile. That had been a point of contention between Logan and Jubilee since her announcement just before graduation.

"—and Remy's got his guild watching him—in its way." Scott thought about what he was going to say. "'Ro's staying to help shut down the school—we are going keeping it in operation until the last minute, so we won't arouse any suspicion. By the time they figure out what we're doing, it'll be too late."

Logan snorted something that could have been an obscenity, already reaching for a cigar—or two, as the case might be. Scott took the other without demur—a strange sort of Logan-bonding ritual, and he'd grown to tolerate Cuban blacks, even if he had no desire to find out who Logan's supplier was.

"You and Jeannie need to run and fast." Logan bit the tip, lighting the cigar, then tossing the lighter to Scott.

Scott looked down at the Cuban. They'd had this argument before, and more than once. Sometimes at the top of their voices, and every time Scott walked out, he was conscious of a sick uncertainty—Logan was remembering the times he'd gone as Jean's bodyguard to the conferences she was more and more shunned at, the lobbying in Congress where she was threatened outside the building—the single shot that had missed her by inches in Detroit, the last time she'd been allowed off-campus. Logan took his security duties seriously—-one reason the FBI was finding it impossible to watch them as closely as they wanted to. Xavier had given Logan access to nearly-unlimited funds and to some of the most state-of-the-art black-market technology that could be found—and Logan hadn't wasted a second utilizing it.

"Jean's too visible. If she disappears now, there will be notice." He knew Logan didn't like that—and Scott hated it himself. Hated being afraid for Jean, hated that he'd had to restrict her to campus, and the nightmare that was his life with a fiancée who would barely speak to him. He didn't even try to convince her to leave, for all the reasons he told Logan—but also because he knew he had to compromise with her somewhere and this was where it had to happen. She'd stay as long as he did.

"Australia then?"

Scott nodded slowly, thinking through the plan again, examining it from every angle. "Yes. None of the kids who got registered are going to be in the country when the provisions go into full effect. We can get them out of Canada easier than out of the United States."

"How long?" The timetable wasn't written in stone, and Scott had made alterations to it as soon as he'd heard the news.

"Two months to get all the kids repapered and across the border. I can't chance notice. Even in Canada, we're not completely safe."

Logan was nodding slowly, but Scott watched his eyes slide back to the garage and watched with him as Jubilee emerged, wiping her hands off on her jeans before running for the doors of the Mansion.

"I want to take the girls out." Logan's voice was low. Scott had known that was coming too.

"They'll be fine, Logan. They weren't registered the first time around." It hadn't been hard to avoid it—the attempts were half-hearted at best. Obvious mutants, especially the physically altered, had been the real targets, along with the high-profile ones—he and Jean, for example. Xavier's powers had kept him and as many of the kids as they could safely hide free from registration. Kurt's German citizenship hadn't helped him, though. Germany had passed the same restrictions and the irony of that hadn't really escaped anyone. "We're getting out the registered first. They're the most vulnerable. We can't do a complete move or it will be noticed."

And he knew Logan understood that too—they couldn't afford even a hint of what they were planning to get out, or the borders would be shut down completely, and though Logan could find a way across alone, chancing it with several passengers—no. Thinking carefully, Scott ran through the timetables again, adding various permutations, discarding them as unlikely. They had their two months easy. Not suspicious, not at all.

"Okay. Your way, Cyke—for now. If there's even a hint—"

"I'll put them on the Blackbird and send them to Canada personally." The government knew about their plane, though as yet, they hadn't been approached about it. That still made Scott uneasy. His instincts were all on the side of just packing everyone up and running—pack them into the plane like sardines if necessary—but it just wasn't possible, not and get their assets out as well, buy the passports and IDs and places for their kids to survive.

Logan was still watching the garage and Scott wondered why—then checked the fix of the hazel eyes, following them until he found what Logan was really looking at, and drew in a breath. Knew that mentioning it would just piss Logan off, but—

"We're taking down her stone before we leave, Logan. They won't—they're not going to do anything to her grave." He didn't think they'd disinter Rogue just because she was a mutant—though there were uncomfortable rumors, rumors that Scott simply couldn't afford to even consider right now, about experiments, about legally registered mutants that had been arrested and then "escaped" from custody to vanish off the face of the earth, of non-registered disappearing completely.

The set face didn't register any change.

"I'll take it down before I leave," Logan said finally, then glanced at Scott, and he found himself unable to read the still face. "Just in case."

Scott let out a breath and forced a smile.

"I'll help you." Then decided to change the subject. "Your group will be ready on Sunday. That give you enough time?" To set up security for his absence, to brief Remy on what to do and give him access to the passcodes—to explain to Jubilee and Kitty and St. John that'd he be leaving and to take down the stone that marked where Rogue was buried.

And to pack the sketches up and send them ahead. But Scott didn't think about those.

"I'm taking the girls to dinner in New York—should be safe enough there." He gave Scott a sideways glance. It was a special treat for the kids to get off the school grounds, and Logan did it as often as it was safe to do so. "See ya later, Cyke."

Scott nodded shortly. He had a lot he should be doing, but nothing else seemed quite as important as standing here, taking in the day.

Smoking the Cuban and trying not to wince at the rich, harsh smoke in his lungs, Scott looked over the Mansion grounds, the school, committing the perfect day to memory. Somehow, he knew he'd need it.


	5. Assumptions

_"...there is no surer way of keeping possession than by devastation."_   
_—Niccolo Machiavelli, "The Prince"_

* * *

Like everything else in this world, it was the familiarity that tended to spook me more than the differences. Logan's security codes, for one—I fished them up from memory and entered them, hands shaking, but boom, they worked. The door was trickier, but I'd learned the finer points of lock-picking from an expert, and with a few seconds of study and a few minutes of careful rotation, the door yielded.

Little victories were all I really looked for anymore. I didn't do a little dance or break into song, but I grinned when I pushed the heavy wooden door open. No squeak of hinges. I had to be surprised that Logan had oiled them—he usually liked an extra warning system, like bad hinges on his door. Low-tech all the way.

The apartment was about what I would have expected if I'd thought about it. He liked the combination of privacy and security—but not _too_ muchto arouse the interest of burglars. The brownstone high-rise was just enough out of character for Logan to work.

Carefully, I slipped inside the door, letting my eyes adjust to the dark, only the far window letting in the brilliant lights of the city of New York. Carefully shutting the door, I turned the lock and reactivated his security system—there might be a damn good reason Logan had it on, and I wasn't going to chance anything unexpected and nasty coming to visit in the middle of my revelation.

The furniture was darker blobs in the living room ahead—Logan was a minimalist at heart, so there wasn't much I needed to worry about. Passing the small kitchen to my left, I crossed the small living room and approached the only door. I brushed my fingers over the knob and it gave easily—not locked. Good.

_—You ready for this, Marie?—_

Sure thing.

There was a vague familiarity associated with this little nighttime trek into Logan's apartment, no matter what universe we were in. Known territory for me, the feel and the smells and the soft sound of his breathing. I'd fallen asleep here and got over ex-boyfriends here and cried my eyes out here—relatively speaking. He'd given me a key and told me to use it anytime, and he'd laughed when I'd told him I'd do his laundry. Hell, I'd even helped pick out the furniture. Armed with a highlighter and pen, stretched out in front of the television while he watched hockey, I'd marked possible furnishings and showed him the fabric samples that I'd picked up along with pizza for dinner.

He'd gone with leather. Such a lack of surprise.

Shutting the door, I leaned up against the wall, hoping he couldn't hear the rapid pounding of my heart and trying to keep my breathing steady as I let my eyes linger over the spartan room. Then I looked at Logan, stretched out in bed, the covers rucked around his waist, and I almost took a step forward in surprise.

He looked so—different. And on some level, no matter how many times I'd seen him in the Mansion, it was still a shock to see in real life.

Even in sleep, the hard lines of his face hadn't diminished, and his body was tense, as if expecting attack at any time. The short hair still threw me, more than I'd expected. He'd never let it get cut that short—up close, I could see even his beloved sideburns were trimmed closer than he had ever allowed. As I watched, he twisted slightly, a low growl reverberating through the room and through my chest. Blinking back tears, I tried to dismiss the images Kitty's memories kept trying to shove into the forefront of my mind—the smells of sterile metal and blood and a hate I understood down to my bones, that I shared absolutely.

A part of me wanted nothing more than to run up and throw my arms around him and apologize for dying on him and leaving him to this. The rest of me—I drew back into the wall, feeling Carol and Logan inside me growing a little stronger, bracing me for what I wanted to do.

_—You can do this, Marie.—_

Sure I could.

_—You know him, honey.—_ Carol's voice was careful, almost gentle.

_—You said it yourself, Carol; this is a different world.—_

A different world that I couldn't quite assimilate. Logan was Logan, any universe, I had to believe that. But this one had gone through things I couldn't even begin to imagine. He was head of school security, the man who scared the living daylights out of a room full of post-wartime mutants, a willing collaborator in the Polaris Project. I didn't know him

He'd saved five hundred mutant children during the war and survived torture and experimentation in the camps. He'd rescued Bobby, Johnny, Scott. He'd led guerilla attacks, had worked as Scott's second in the Resistance, in that final battle that had crushed the human armies and liberated fifteen death camps in the United States. He'd helped save mutantkind and his name was one with legend.

_—Just do it.—_ And I couldn't be sure what voice said that—but they were right.

"Logan." My voice cracked on his name and I shook myself. I was Rogue, an X-Man and a woman, not a kid.

He came awake instantly, claws flashing out, and I drew in a deep breath, waiting for him to cool. Vivid hazel eyes unerringly found me standing against the door. I wondered if I should turn on the lights. His vision was good either way.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Know my scent, know my scent, know my scent...

"I'm—I'm Rogue, Logan." Slowly, I pulled the wig off, running my fingers through my shorn hair as I dropped the wig on the floor, letting him take me in. It was too dark for me to clearly make out his expression.

Maybe he'd forgotten. Maybe seven years was too long. Maybe—

He flipped on the lamp and I saw the remains of naked shock flickering across his face, before his control snapped into place. Relaxing into the bed, he gave me a patient look. Not what I expected. Nothing even close, and I paused at the foot, blinking.

"Cute, Mystique. How the fuck did you get in here?"

Ewww. I didn't need that sort of imagery.

I waited for a second as he frowned. He got the scent now, taking it in. The patient look vanished as if it had never been there. I had the briefest second to absorb the blank rage that took its place, before he was in rapid motion, and the weight of his body knocked me back three shocked steps into the heavy cool wood of the door, adamantium hot on the skin of my throat. I brought a knee up reflexively and he kicked it out of the way. My feet scrambled helplessly against the wall as his thigh wedged between my legs, flattening me into the wood. My right hand was twisted up within inches of my head, wrist trapped between his fingers, and it was a concerted effort of will to keep my other hand still.

Skin might be invulnerable, but the thing about bones was, they really, really weren't. And I liked my wrist.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Breathe. This isn't your Logan. This Logan survived the death camps and helped rescue children from the exterminators. He's seen things you'll have nightmares about. He thinks you're dead.

_—Easy, kid. Take it slow. He's hair-triggered.—_

Blindingly obvious, thank you oh so _very_ much.

I took a breath against the warm pressure of the adamantium laid against my throat, his, forearm tense, the knuckles of his right hand dangerously close to the bared skin of my throat. His face was almost expressionless, breathing lightly, just on the edge of pure feral rage.

Hair-trigger was just about right. If he flipped over while I was standing here, I could _not_ say both of us would survive the night.

"Rogue." Breathe, Marie. Just breathe. He knows your scent. I felt him take me in with another breath, matching it up in his memory. He knew. The scent was right. All me and some of him, just underneath, from when I touched him. Rogue. Marie. Me.

"You're lying." He ground the words out like broken glass between his teeth. I shuddered and felt the metal press deeper into my skin. Adamantium might not break my skin—but then again....

"You never forget a scent—you told me that," I whispered over the pressure against my throat. "You might forget everything else, but you wouldn't forget that." I made sure my free hand was a good distance from my body, so he could see I wasn't trying to threaten, felt him tense against me, adamantium pushing a breath closer.

"She's dead."

"Yeah, I know." And the ways that still spooked me were beyond words to describe. Like, enough so I really _really_ tried not to think about it. "I'm—it's hard to explain."

"Fuck that. Explain who the hell you are and why the fuck you're playing this." The cold precision of his voice scared me more than anything had yet. More than rage—he was off the scale, about a half-step from feral. Breathe, Rogue. Think. _Think._

Okay, bring out the memories. My Big Guns. Well, my only guns. I could only hope they were accurate—that this matched the past of Rogue here, or I was _so_ damned screwed. I met the hot hazel eyes and let out a slow breath.

"Marie." He froze—a predator before the jump, a single moment in time where there was nothing but the potential for action. "No one else knows. No one. I told you in the camper." Please God, so far, some things had remained the same in the past. Let this be one of them. "You said—you told me your name and you—you asked what kind of name Rogue was. I told you my name. I never told anyone else."

A pause, thick with tension—he took it in, the pupils of his eyes dilating completely, hazel swallowed into gaping black. He was putting it together, I could see it. Believe, Logan. God, trust your senses, trust your instincts.

"Telepath could figure that out."

What kind of telepaths would—oh fuck. He lived with the New and Unimproved Jean Grey and that pretty chick who kept watching me, Betsy. God knew what they did when they thought it was necessary.

"Telepaths can't read you. They have problems getting in your mind." I met his eyes, reading the disbelief. "A telepath couldn't fish out that memory unless it was right on top of your head. We both know that. You trained in the military and you have the mental discipline to hold out against even X—the strongest psis. Your—your mutation protects you too, from mind-probes." I let out a breath that shuddered. "I'm Marie, Logan. Your Marie. Rogue."

Another pause, longer—the claw wasn't retracting, but it certainly wasn't approaching any closer to my windpipe and that was all kinds of good.

"That isn't possible."

"Yeah, well, that's an opinion, not a fact. Fact is, I'm here, and I sure as hell shouldn't be." Ooh, maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. The tip of metal touched my skin briefly before pulling back just a little, enough so I could breathe easily. He freed my wrist with his other hand, reaching to touch my hair lightly, finger tracing the line of white down to my cheek.

_Really_ close to my skin.

"Rogue, right?" A slight smile—he didn't believe and I honestly couldn't blame him. "Prove it."

I barely had time to accept what he was going to do, something that no one had done voluntarily since that one moment on the statue. Touch. My skin. A callused fingertip skimmed the length of my cheek and it was electric. For a frozen second, nothing happened, and the smirk didn't change. Then—

"Fuck!"

He jerked back, claws retracting, stumbling against the bed and almost falling. I sank into the short carpet, fingers burying themselves in the thick carpet, trying to put the pieces of a new Logan into some semblance of order. Sharp lines of rage/hate/fear/pain, too mixed, too strong, I couldn't even begin to sort them out. Pushing them back, I erected a temporary dam and took a long, shuddering breath. I hadn't gotten much. Looking down, I realized my hands were clenched and was vaguely surprised metal hadn't broken out from between my knuckles. They itched. All familiar.

_—Darlin'?—_

Oh shit—my Logan was still in there.

_—Logan?—_ I couldn't lose him, I couldn't, I could _not_ handle this alone. God. —_Logan???—_

_—WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?—_

I shut my eyes, concentrating on his voice in my head, holding it in the storm of new memories and new personality traits and the unbalance that was created by every absorption. I clung to him with all I was until I felt him coalesce, complete and whole and _mine_, the one I knew and loved.

_—Sugar, that's you.—_

A brief flare of useless denial—he knew that—and then I cleared my head and Logan retreated from my consciousness, a strange cross between bewildered and inactively hostile. Outer Logan wasn't doing much better—straightening against the bed, he stared at me, eyes wide, as vulnerable as I'd ever seen him. Pure pain-remembrance of failure, I felt that slipping through my thoughts, bitter on the back of my tongue. Visions of me lying dead up there and my skin doing nothing but grow colder when he touched it. Cold wind and twisted metal around me—around _him_—unbelieving shock that it hadn't worked, it hadn't worked, it hadn't _worked_....

"Logan," I whispered.

"She's dead." His voice was hoarse.

"She's dead," I agreed, hearing my voice shake. Unsteadily, I levered myself back onto my heels. Carol and Inner Logan were at work helping me restore my tentative balance. "I'm not—not her. Not the one you knew." Trembling, I got my feet back under me, pressing a gloved palm to the wall to steady myself as I stood up. "I'm not—from this place."

"No shit, or Mags'd already co-opted that gift, darlin'." A pause, and he looked at me again—this time, really looked. The streak in my shortened hair, the lines of my face and my body. Taking in the match of scent, the feel of my gift. He knew me. Nothing to do with the mind, everything to do with the body. Smell. Feel. Sound. Things he depended on, things that were his territory, things he trusted. "You're—"

"I'm Rogue at age twenty-three. I didn't—where I come from, I didn't die."

Logan took that in. My inner Logan growled softly, and I felt him and Carol helping sort through the vague flashes of New Loganness I'd gotten, trying to organize. A table in the lab, my silent face, a quiet grave on the outskirts of the Mansion, a rush of animal hatred that seemed to dominate every memory that came after. The camps.

_—You know he's under orders to bring mutants with this gift or similar in, right?—_

No huge surprise there. Paranoia was my friend.

_—There's a reason I'm not usin' the name Rogue 'round here.—_

_—So we're sitting here with this guy....—_

_—He's you, Logan.—_

_—He sure as hell is not.—_

The vehemence startled me—he was in my head, mixing with the memories I was repressing until I could find time to assimilate them. Logan was under orders from Magneto and _why_ did I think he'd help me now? My Logan—he would have died for me.

But—but this one had tried to. I had the concrete proof in my head, and damn it, that had to mean something. Unreadable hazel eyes met mine as he got his strength back, and I waited as he reorganized his mind, bringing the pieces together.

"You say you're Rogue—"

"You always called me Marie." He shuddered, almost imperceptible in the dim light, and the clear eyes left mine, fixing on the wall to my left. "Look, I know this is hard to believe—"

"Impossible crap, kid." Kid. There's no reason that hated term should suddenly ease the pressure in my chest. God, he did believe. He did. At least a little. One step. "I don't—"

"It's me—I—look, I don't know _what_ happened." How did I explain to him what I didn't know myself? "I went to get tampons and I came out here. And that's it. I wish—I don't understand what happened and I don't know why. And I—" I froze, watching as he straightened, slowly approaching me.

He was staring at me—tracing every line of my face with his eyes. Something was in them I couldn't quite understand, couldn't really define at all—almost hunger. Then they fixed on my throat and stayed there. I lifted a hand, suddenly aware of what I was wearing when I'd been dropped here, what I'd hidden under my clothes instinctively.

I never really thought about it.

Slowly, Logan reached out, tracing the chain with one finger, and I shakily lifted my hands and pulled it out. Should have remembered—should have known—he'd know this. Knew it as he ran his fingers over it, the blunted, shiny edges from when I'd fondled it over the years, the raised numbers engraved in his memory.

It suddenly made me wonder where his were—the strong throat was bare.

"You're dead." But he didn't look quite so—he looked different. Like something had been confirmed for him. And I had no idea what to make of that.

"She's dead. I'm here."

"This can't happen."

"I know. Trust me, I know. It's—" Words froze, I froze, at the touch of his hand on my hair, hesitating as if I'd break with a breath, running across the streak of white with careful fingers. Tactile reality—scent and sight and touch, tracing me with the tips of sensitive fingers, the lines of my face through my hair, the shape of my shoulders, the scent of me overall. Older and different—but the same.

It was so sudden, so powerful—it was _Logan_, pulling me from the wall into a tight embrace, sudden and overwhelming, and it could have been anytime in my past with him when he held me but it wasn't. A different man was holding me bruisingly close as if he'd never let me go, strong arms wrapped around my waist and my toes could barely touch the ground. I didn't care. Closing my eyes, I buried my face against his shoulder, letting the sheer relief turn my body liquid. He _knew_ me. He believed me.

Everything was right in the world. At least here. At least now. At least a little.

"I watched you die." I felt his breath stir my hair and his memories in me pressing forward, the scenes flashed vividly across my mind in painfully bleak grey and black, how he held me and tried and my skin, my fucking skin that had taken so much from me already—it didn't do a thing. How he dropped on the edge of the machine still holding me, how Ororo and Jean had had to bring us down. "God, Marie...."

I _hadn't_ gone up there willingly, and the sheer relief of it made me dizzy. God, not so different, the Rogue of this world hadn't been a believer. Thank God.

"Logan," I whispered, feeling myself begin to shake. Instantly, he pulled back, leading me to sit on the bed as I tried to assimilate what I'd pulled from him. Too little, brief flashes, the strongest impressions—his newer nightmares, the ones I'd given him. The reason he slept so badly. Without even meaning to, I reached out, touching his face, feeling the tension of the muscles beneath.

I knew things about myself now—how cold my skin could be when I was dead, how fluorescent lights drained the color from my body, how tiny I could look on a medical bed.

Dear God, no wonder he became this. He watched me die every night of his life.

"Marie."

I jerked my hand away and he caught it before it could drop into my lap, gripping my fingers tightly.

"I thought I was going crazy." Logan had never looked at me like that before. Hungry, disbelieving—and believing. Believing because every instinct in his body was screaming out who I was, and he believed his instincts the way he'd believe nothing and no one else. "I smelled you everywhere."

I could remember everything I'd touched in the Mansion in vivid detail, every place I'd sat down, everywhere the scent would have teased him. I couldn't even imagine what that must have been like.

"It's me. Just—just the me I would have been. I think." If I'd survived, this might not have happened, any of it. Except that machine shouldn't have worked, it _shouldn't _have worked, Robert Kelley should be dead and he wasn't, and I was reminded of that with every dollar bill I saw.

"Tell me what happened." He lowered himself to sit beside me, our knees brushing, and I took a deep breath, trying to decide how. So I told him about the store and the camp, coming to the school with my hair up in a blonde wig, about the name I'd used and the suspicions of Jean and Scott . How I'd found out what Magneto was doing.

"So you came looking for me?" His expression was familiar—he'd looked at me a lot like that when he saw me in his trailer.

_—See, I was gonna ask you 'bout that one day, darlin'.—_

"Yeah." I felt my inner-Logan grin as well. "We're—we're friends, sugar. You—you did a lot for me."

"And you thought I would too?"

Oh, dangerous question. I lifted my head to stare at him. I couldn't read him like I could read my Logan; this one didn't give a damn thing away. Nothing at all. He'd learned things my Logan hadn't. He'd hardened in ways that frightened me.

But shit, he was still Logan. Period and end right there.

"You were willing to die for me."

"Maybe I was just stupid."

I looked down at my hands, pulling out a trace of memory and holding it up before my eyes.

"You dream about me."

He sucked in a sharp breath, letting it out slowly.

"Got that, huh?"

I shrugged a little, pushing the memories back and away, not yet ready to deal with them.

"A little," I admitted. "Not much. You're better than the alternatives. Everyone thinks I'm dead and Erik's playing god with his machine and I don't wanna end up in it again." I laced my fingers together. "There isn't anyone else who wouldn't hand me over to Erik just for my skin, whether they believed me or not." Maybe Bobby wouldn't, but almost certainly Johnny would. No question.

He frowned a little, giving the wall a long look. When I looked up, I saw a strange, thoughtful look on his face. "What the hell do you want me to do?"

Good question.

"I don't know." It was more than annoying to have inner Logan nodding agreement. "I don't even know what to do with myself. Except I want to go home." Home, where Xavier was smiling over school papers and Scott was being anal and wonderful at the same time and Jean held me when I cried after my first break up. Where Logan—my Logan—was my best friend and confidante. "I know I need help though, and at least—at least one person who knows who I am and...." I began to shake. "I hate using Carol like this, I hate losing myself in her memories. I hate pretending to be someone I'm not."

I hated that this place was way too fucking familiar, that for the grace of God it wasn't my world at all. Grace of God and Logan getting up on that Statue in time.

_—You'll get back.—_ Carol's voice was gentle in my head, soft almost. Warmth. She'd never been that before, and for some reason, that hurt too.

_—I don't even know how I got here.—_

_—You'll get back.—_

I looked up, meeting Logan's steady gaze.

"What's it like? Where you come from."

I wondered what he wanted to hear—because I couldn't be sure this wasn't exactly the kind of world he wanted. Mutants won, humans were trapped, and my Logan had never exactly been fond of regular humans.

But he'd never exterminated them either.

_—Marie.—_

_—Hush up, sugar. I need to think.—_

"Different." I shook my head, bracing my hands on the edge of the mattress as if it would give me strength. "There was no war. We're still being discriminated against. No one's died. You're looking for your past. The X-Men do stuff. Big differences." Huge. My face wasn't the one on statues that talked about martyrdom. People knew I hadn't gotten into that machine willingly.

My friends hadn't lost their ethics, their ideals. And mutants hadn't won the war.

Logan nodded slowly.

"And you and me?"

Oh dear God. Get to the complicated questions.

"You and I—we're friends." More than that. I tried to put it into words. "You left for awhile—after the Statue." He winced a little and I hurried on. "But you came back. You trained me. You—you took care of me. You were on my first mission with me." I wanted more, you didn't. No, won't go into that. "You're my best friend. Always have been."

He accepted this—God, he was taking it way too calm.

_—Logan, help me out. What's going on?—_

_—Depends on which one of us you're talkin' to, baby.—_

I froze. No. No no no....

_—I'm still here. Just—adjusting.— _A pause._ —You're not gonna like this, darlin'. He doesn't know what to do now.—_

Seven years of difference, of conditioning, of becoming the man he was now. Seven years of difference between the man that climbed that Statue for me and the man that sat on this bed.

_—And instinct?—_

_—Run. Pick you up and run as far as possible. Get you out and not fail.—_

I looked up to see him watching me again—still unreadable, still frighteningly familiar.

"You don't know how you got here?"

I mutely shook my head.

"Tell me what happened when you crossed over."

I told him, trying to remember every detail—the door, my chin, the blinding headache, my scraped knee, and the frightened man that helped me and handed me the wrong change.

"Two days ago?"

"Yes."

He nodded slowly, scratching the back of his neck. It was endearing—he did that when he was thinking.

"And you found out Mags is running his machine again."

"Yeah. They—he—you're—people are being gathered to use it—he found a girl he can use. Polaris. She—she volunteered to die in that thing." I choked, remembering the pain of the ripping out of my powers, the feel of my soul being drawn out through my skin. Shivered a little—I'd always wondered if that was how Carol felt, how Logan felt, when they touched me.

_—Not exactly. But close. It didn't hurt that much.—_

Logan nodded—well, of course. He was helping to run this hellhole.

"I don't—I don't understand. Where I come from, it didn't work."

Suddenly, my shoulders were in a tight grip, turning me around to face him completely.

"It didn't work?" There was a strange intensity to the question—I couldn't get around it, couldn't define it.

"Senator Kelley—he died."

"But up on the Statue—"

"Scott wrecked the machine before the wave hit New York. But here—here, Senator Kelley _survived_, he changed. I don't—"

"He didn't. He died in the Mansion. In the lab."

I jerked my gaze up—my hand went to my pocket and Logan tensed, but I only pulled out the money, and it fell from my fumbling fingers onto the floor. Slowly, he picked it up, frowning as he studied the worn bills.

"He's on there." I flipped the dollar bill over so the portrait was visible. "President Kelley." That was Kelley. I knew the man's face like my own.

"No. She's on there, Mystique." A little smile turned up his lips—almost amused. "No one knows, 'cept the X-Men. Shape-changing, that was what was given out that happened to Kelley, that was his mutation. Mags's trial run failed and Kelley died. He succeeded on the Statue." A pause. "He needed you to make it work. He doesn't know why."

"But that girl—" Polaris. He was putting someone else in that damn thing....

"It'll fail or succeed. He thinks it might need the death of the mutant to bring it to full power, not necessarily your presence."

The death of a mutant, or that special blend of magnet-and-rogue power. I stared down at the money in his hand, blinking. Logan went up that Statue to fetch me. I didn't go willingly. Everything matched up to—

"Then that's when the split occurred. I died here, lived there."

"He ran Polaris in the machine for a test two days ago. Ring any bells?"

My mouth went completely dry.

"You mean—that—that machine is responsible for this?" I remembered what Bobby said—how Polaris wanted to be as brave as Rogue. As I had been. I wondered what she would think if she knew how I'd screamed for help and begged Erik to let me go.

"God," I heard myself whisper. I couldn't even begin to figure this out. "How the _hell—_"

"God hasn't answered in awhile. Try again." Logan shifted on the bed beside me. "You gotta get outta here, baby. Mags finds out you're another absorber, you're might be playin' the part again. And you didn't like it the first time."

No. No, I hadn't.

"If I don't, Polaris dies instead." And maybe all those desperate people, who just wanted to survive in this horrible, horrible world would die too. Who would do anything to be free. God, this wasn't Xavier's dream, how could Scott fool himself into believing that? How?

"Why the fuck do you care?"

I jerked, looking up at him in surprise.

"She's—" I stopped short. What did he mean, so what? Polaris was going to _die_ in that thing. Well, shit, look who I was talking to.

_—That isn't me.—_

_—You think? Shit, Logan, this is too weird. I can't handle this. I look at him, and I see you.—_

_—Well, it ain't any easier from in here either.—_

Logan was still staring at me.

"What?"

He shook his head, that strange smile back. Oh yeah, I'm dead here. This must be—freaky as hell. And he was still taking this rather well, all things considered, and that bothered me even more.

"Fuck." He stood up again, pacing to the door—typical-Logan reaction to stress, movement. With a growl, he went to the dresser, fumbling through, and pulled out a cigar. I restrained myself from asking for one myself—wrapping my hands together on my lap, I tried to think of something to say.

"You gotta get outta here—Marie." Hesitation—also lots of shock, but also typical-Logan, tuning it out because he wasn't sure how to deal with it. His eyes slid down my body hungrily and I resisted the urge to stand up and let him look his fill—he had to believe, I needed one person to believe me. But the hazel eyes focused suddenly on my hands, still coated in my leather gloves.

"You didn't learn to control it?"

I shook my head.

"No." I paused, remembering the hours in meditation. "Soon. I know it'll be soon."

_—That's right, darlin. Soon.—_

Logan stood up abruptly, capturing my full attention.

"I can fix that now."

Without a glance to see if I was following, he walked out the bedroom door. A lot like my Logan, actually, taking my obedience for granted. For a second, I didn't move, but curiosity got the better of me and I followed him into the living room. He was at the desk, pulling out a key from the top drawer and then turning to the wall. Ran his hand along the wood, growling something softly—

"There." Pressing his hand against the wall, he paused, taking a step back. "Logan."

:::Voice print accepted.:::

Startled, I crossed to stand behind him as an invisible panel clicked ajar and he flipped it completely open, reaching inside. Out came something that looked—well, that looked remarkably like a collar. Metal, gleaming silver-bright in the darkened room, picking up the lights of New York. It looked polished.

"What the hell is that?"

He flipped the collar in his hand and grinned, before shutting the panel and turning around.

"Genoshan specialty. Camp control. We kept the technology—turned out useful sometimes." He flipped it over again, putting the key in. I shivered as I watched it slide open. "Com'ere."

_—Don't.—_ That was Carol, a hiss across the top of my head that made my scalp itch. —_Genoshan collar, Rogue. You've heard the rumors.—_

I hesitated, and Logan's head tilted, a slightly sardonic smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"You come here and tell me this crap, _now_ you don't trust me. Irony, darlin'." I still couldn't read him—I needed to sit down and assimilate him in my head, get a better feel for the man in front of me. My usual-Logan couldn't help much with this.

"What will it do?" I took a step, pausing to eye the collar uncertainly.

"Turn you off. It won't hurt." A long pause, while I stared at it, taking in everything that could mean. Turn me off. Everything—skin, strength, flying, invulnerability. As helpless as I hadn't been since before I manifested. "Trust me or not."

Oh. That was the way of it.

_—Believe.—_

And I had no idea what voice said that.

Slowly, I walked over and turned around. The long fingers lifted my hair, pressed the collar around my throat. I heard the click of the key and then, suddenly, everything in my head shifted.

_Shifted_ three inches over, as if the entire world was trying to get away from my feet and leave me lingering in limbo.

"Oh _fuck._" I grabbed for my throat as a wave of dizziness threatened to overcome me. Strong hands braced themselves under my arms and I drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and even more slowly, the arms withdrew, touching my face lightly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." I moved slowly, testing out the feel of this—my body felt different. Heavier, almost. I concentrated—nothing. No float, no hover. Just—here.

_—God, Logan, this is weird.—_

And—and nothing. I raised a hand to my head in shock.

_—Logan? Logan! Carol! What the hell—_

"Marie?"

"My—" I stopped, pushing down raw panic. "The voices are gone. Everyone—there's no one there." I ran around in my head, but only my own thoughts were there. Nothing else. I felt—strangely empty. Like a warehouse emptied of all merchandise, alone and yelling, only hearing the echoes of my own voice.

Then a hand brushed across my face and I stiffened automatically, beginning to jerk away, but Logan grabbed my shoulder, pulling me closer. The feel of bare skin on mine—I drew in a breath as every nerve came alight, shocked into the reality. I could touch. I could _touch_. He tilted my head up, looking into my eyes, and I felt my body begin to shiver.

I'd seen that look on Logan's face before. But never directed at me.

"How does it feel?"

I opened my mouth, trying to speak. Bare, wonderful skin against mine—I wanted to taste it and breathe on it, run my tongue over every inch of the hand against my chin, explore the textures and the warmth. Wonderful. Amazing. Incredible. Bare fingers on my cheek, on my neck, touch, it ran all through me and a wave of pure arousal flickered through my body that I tried to control, remembering all those lessons from Jean in control of my mind, all those meditation exercises, all those years and years of work to make myself strong. They flipped into place, but—but God, he had to sense it on me.

I'd always wanted his touch and he had to know that too. God, what a time to get this. What a damn _awkward_ moment, but I couldn't help it. I'd wanted this for years.

"Fine."

"Most people stay dizzy for awhile. Sit down, get used to it."

Oh. _Oh_. He wasn't talking about the touch—he was talking about the collar and my new powerless state. Good Rogue, make everything about sex. There were more important things to be worried about here, like, hey, survival. I nodded slowly and he removed his hand from my skin—it was like withdrawal, I staggered a little, and his hand caught my elbow, helping me sit down.

"Weird," I whispered. Beyond words to describe. Jerking off a glove, I stared at my fingers and turned, seeing Logan so close beside me—

—I had to. Simple, instinctive, he was inches away.

He didn't move when I reached out, my finger hovering a breath away from his cheek, and then his fingers covered mine, pushing down until warm skin was beneath the tip of one finger. I cupped the skin and sideburns, and there was _nothing _ that could be better than this, nothing that....

He pulled my hand away and I almost jerked my hand back to touch him.

"Here." Then he pressed something into my hand. "This'll unlock it. The lock is behind your left ear." A smile now—he was showing I could trust him. Damn me, and I'd hesitated when he'd taken the collar out. I nodded, putting the key carefully in my pocket, feeling the metal with bare fingers. Texture was still something relatively different to me. "It'll help you on campus—just keep it covered with somethin'."

Shit, that was a good idea. Brilliant, even, and I fingered the collar again. Granted, I was no longer invulnerable and I couldn't fly or use my strength, but at very least, if someone touched me, they wouldn't get their brains sucked out.

"So what do you plan to do exactly?"

I shrugged, still exploring the curiously empty arena of my mind, the undeniably strange feeling of skin that didn't injure. Shaking myself clear of self-absorption, I looked back at Logan.

"I don't know. If the machine is the reason, if he runs it with Polaris, I may be able to find a way back. But—" But I needed Hank, Xavier, someone who understood this crap. Someone who would know advanced physics and math and weird parallel universes. Someone who could explain why I crossed over and how on earth it had happened. "But I don't know how it happened." And I didn't want Polaris to die because of it either.

The machine had worked with my death. And now, seven years later, he took it on a test drive with Polaris and it did—_this_. For no reason—there was no reason that the store had been an entry point. There was no reason why—

—oh _shit_ did I need some serious thinkers to help me out here.

"I think I know who you need to talk to." I started, but Logan wasn't looking at me, gaze fixed on the far wall as if it could solve every problem in the universe if he just stared at it long enough. To me, it just looked like cream paint.

"Who?" Who could I trust, who wouldn't turn me over to Magneto, who would understand...

"Hank McCoy'll be in town. I think he might be interested in this little situation."

"Hank?" What kind of Hank? A good, nice, ethical doctor Hank, or did I want to know what he could be doing in this brave new world?

"Let's say he's not a fan of the new world order, darlin'. Or big into Mags's latest enterprise."

I nodded numbly, and realized that I was still fingering the collar. Reaching up, I pressed the key into the slot—with a little fumbling, it slid smoothly in and I turned it sharply, feeling it slide off effortlessly and into my lap. The rush was extraordinary—my skin, for the briefest instant, felt as if it were burning, and the tingling of invulnerability settled around me. When I looked up, I felt Logan's intent gaze again and felt myself begin to flush under it.

He was just surprised. I wasn't the little girl he remembered. That was all, it had to be.

The voices were faint but beginning to return, and I wondered, light-headedly, what Logan and Carol would say to _this_ development.

"Marie."

I turned my head to see Logan paused at the kitchen door, a strange expression on his face—half frown, half curiosity.

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you get in the trailer?" he asked softly, and I blinked at the question that seemed to come out of nowhere. Sheesh, good question. Why _had_ I gotten in the trailer? Strangely, I'd never asked myself that. It was all mixed up in desperation and fear and hunger, but more than that, because, frankly, there _had_ been better options that night.

Turning it over in my mind, there was only one real answer I could make.

"I knew you wouldn't hurt me. Not ever."

There was a flicker of something in his eyes, before he disappeared behind the dividing wall and I leaned back into the couch, taking a long breath.

_—So, Inner Personalities, how'd I do?—_ I teased. Logan and Carol were not amused.

I really didn't care.

* * *

I feel asleep on Logan's couch and woke up with a blanket lightly spread over my body and a vague sense of well-being that evaporated the second I opened my eyes.

The collar was on the coffee table and I sat up, rubbing my head absently as I looked at it.

"Awake?"

I turned and—oh God. God, God, God. Jeans, no shirt, barefooted, making coffee. He'd done that often enough when I'd stayed over at home, but that was just a little too surreal for my mornings these days. I pulled the blanket off my lap and slowly stood up.

"Yeah." Calm. Libido down, girl. This isn't—anything _close_ to an appropriate time to think about the fact that he looks incredible. Just incredible. Just showered. Nice soap. He's holding out a cup of coffee. Why don't you be a dear and go take it? Good girl. Good girl. Now take a drink—yes, strong, yes, it should wake you right up.

_—Interesting effect he has on you, honey.—_ Carol's mental snickering was _not_ something I could handle this early and I waved vaguely at my head, as if she could see it and get the message to shut up.

"Morning." I murmured, fixing my eyes on the mug, drawing in a deep breath. So he had a great chest. I'd seen it before. I'd slept on it before, for God's sake. Nothing new here. Nothing at all.

"Mm." Logan wasn't a morning person either—like mentor, like student. I turned my wrist to look at my watch. Damn.

"I—I need to get back to campus." I shook my head at his sharp glance.

"What for?" He leaned back against the counter with just delicious grace, and I forced my eyes back to my cup. To the coffee. Non-sexy coffee. Screw that, coffee was sexy when you were drinking it a few inches from someone who could double as an underwear model. Levi stock would damn well _leap_ if he was the advertisement for their jeans.

"Bobby—Bobby's expecting me. For sparring." I'd tried to think of a way out of that one—short of going to look for full-coverage spandex work-out clothes and people wondering why on earth I was dressing like I planned to star in a questionable porn film—but even my powers of invention were stumped.

"You don't wanna go?"

I shook my head, taking another drink. "Risky. I can't tell him—you know, about my skin. And if we fight and he touches me—" I trailed off as Logan nodded, taking a thoughtful sip of coffee while his gaze fixed somewhere around my left ear. His thinking look. "I-my other powers will be turned off too, the ones I admit to. So I can't wear the collar." And Bobby would kick my ass without it, no question. I was good, but he had at least fifty pounds and some serious inches on me. I could hurt him, but not much. Pure skill could only get you so far.

"Did you tell anyone where you were goin' last night?"

I snorted, saw his lips twitch with what could have been a smile.

"Yeah, that'd be subtle." I took another drink, thinking. "I told Kitty I was looking up a friend though—she let me borrow a car." I wondered rather vaguely why I hadn't been followed. "I guess I should call or something."

"I'll call Scooter and tell him I needed you for something." Logan put down his mug, going to get the pot again.

"For what?" What reason could Logan possibly....

Logan grinned a little—it hurt my heart, to see that. Way too familiar.

"He won't get a chance to ask. Besides, he knows I check out all the new recruits anyway—he'll figure I'm pissed you weren't included in the latest list." A nod to himself as he filled his cup. "Go relax or somethin'."

Relax. I stretched my back, hearing the soft pop. "You—do you mind if I take a shower?"

A slight grin, though he didn't look up at me. "Feel free." Putting the coffee pot down, he turned back around, giving me a quick once-over. "There's some school sweats in the bottom drawer if you wanna change clothes until you get back to campus."

A nice way of saying my clothes looked like shit after sleeping in them. Never thought he'd have that much subtlety. Grinning, I finished my coffee and put down the mug, running my fingers absently through my tangled hair as I went to his room. As I turned to shut the door, I saw the fix of Logan's eyes on me briefly, before he turned away and disappeared out of my line of sight into the living room. Faintly, I heard him pick up the phone.

I felt better after the shower, even more so with clean clothes, and far more awake. Walking back out, I twisted my hair back up automatically, then remembered that I didn't need to put on the wig again for awhile. As I entered the living room, Logan was putting down the phone and the hazel eyes fixed on me with alarming intensity.

I wondered how it felt, to see the girl you thought was dead. Shit, it couldn't be easy.

"Hank'll be here in a couple of days."

"I thought you said—"

"He's worried about being detained in Salem if he shows his face. Took me a bit to persuade him I wouldn't tell Erik if he comes."

Slowly, I sank onto the couch a few feet from him, looking down at my bare hands. I'd left my gloves off last night, the first time I could remember doing that in a long time. With a glance, I spotted them by the collar—an addictive little device, had to admit.

"Did you tell him why?" I couldn't keep my eyes off the collar—stripped and helpless though it made me feel, it gave me something else—I felt _normal_. Normal as I hadn't been since I was fifteen.

"Nah. He trusts me." A pause, while I ruminated that thought—I didn't know enough about this Hank to guess whether that was something that was to be considered unusual or not, and suddenly, I wanted to spend five minutes just _not_ thinking about any of it.

Temptation was close—I finally reached out and picked up the collar, running my fingers over it. Glanced up to see Logan's knowing gaze and quickly looked back down.

"How does it work?"

He shrugged lightly.

"No idea. Gotta ask Hank about that—he studied them, along with some of the other anti-mutant technology we collected after the war." Pushing the key over, he stood up, and a strange sense of panic seized me.

"Are—are you leaving?" I didn't think I could handle that. The last thing I wanted was to be alone now—too much on my mind, and finally, one person who knew who I was, and who it was safe for me to know. He frowned slightly—more in thought than anything else, though I could pick up vague traces of general alarm.

"Not for awhile." A pause. "You want me to stay?"

"I'd—" I stopped myself, tearing my gaze away from him and fixing it back on the smooth metal of the collar. Shit, this was awkward. "I—I don't—it's been weird, you know? I had to—hide and not—pretend I don't know anyone. It's—I like knowing one person. I like being myself for awhile."

He considered that.

"Give me an hour to talk to Scooter." Another long glance—God, it felt strange. He didn't know me at all, and I knew him so well and at the same time...oh no, that way led madness. I didn't want to examine anything right now. With a grateful smile, I nodded, rubbing my fingers along the edges of the collar and leaning back into the sofa as he went into his room.

* * *

I hadn't really realized how tired I was—before he left, Logan sent me to his room to sleep, pointing out, quite rightly, that Scott or anyone _could_ drop by, and I should at least try to stay out of sight if I didn't want to put the wig back on.

And I didn't, so I curled up in Logan's bed, surrounded by his familiar scent, and drifted off again in a general haze of familiar comfort. My first night had been—not good—and my second had been stretched out on Logan's couch, not even sure when it was I'd fallen asleep.

So no, I wasn't protesting. Logan's bed was familiar, another tiny shred of comfort. If that made me weak, so be it. I needed what I could get.

It was much later when voices woke me up—sitting up slightly, I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the door, vaguely trying to identify the people outside the room, then checked the window to note that late afternoon was descending into evening rapidly. Logan was talking to someone—I concentrated and then pulled myself awkwardly to my feet and slowly approaching the door, eyeing my discarded wig on the desk chair.

The door was reassuringly locked at my touch, but I didn't feel much better.

"Scott wants you back on campus."

Logan snorted.

"Taking a personal day, Drake." Oh damn—shoulda recognized his voice, but he sounded so—stiff. Different from the Bobby I knew and this Bobby that I'd met. "I'll be back tomorrow. Got some things to do."

There was an uncomfortable pause between them, too much depth behind it for it to be a result of anything that was actually happening in that room right that second. I tried to pinpoint location by the sound of their voices. Logan was a little closer, so I guessed he was nearer the bedroom door. Knowing Bobby, he was standing right in the middle of the room, arms crossed.

Why did I have a bad feeling about this?

"Drake, spit out the real reason you're here—no bullshit about Scooter neither."

Another pause, even longer and more uncomfortable.

"Scott said Marie was with you. I wanted to check up on her, since she left so suddenly yesterday." A pause. "Is she here?"

I flattened myself against the wall, holding my breath.

"I have to check her out, Bobby. You know that." Logan's voice was almost—gentle? I frowned, because why would—

"Here?"

Silence again. Then Logan snorted, loud in the silence of the apartment.

"I knew her sister, Drake." He did? Dear God. "Danvers was in the same camp me and Kitty were in." I could hear Logan shifting—classic signs of Logan-discomfort. "She wants information."

"Where is she now?"

"Sleeping," Logan answered briefly, and I recognized that tone completely. Apparently, Bobby did too—his feet shifted softly and finally, I heard his footsteps steadily fade toward the door.

There was a pause.

"Can you tell her I was looking for her?" Bobby's voice was quiet.

"I'll tell her."

The door opened and shut without a single hint of slamming. I didn't move for a minute, then slowly began to straighten, reaching out to unlock the door and push it open.

Logan turned as I hesitantly crossed the threshold, looking around the quiet living room. He still sucked in picking out furnishings. The couch, now that I was completely conscious and less traumatized, was utterly atrocious. Some greens should not exist. The coffee table was just—ew. I almost asked him to let me go shopping for him. My Logan had known his own style limitations too.

"Bobby was here," he said unnecessarily, and I nodded mutely, playing with the edge of the oversized grey sweats. "You hungry?"

Was I? Surprisingly, yes. Stretching out back muscles I hadn't even known I'd tensed, I nodded again and slipped onto the couch, reaching absently for the collar on the edge of the coffee table. I didn't want to discuss Bobby. I especially didn't want Logan asking me about him.

"Marie?"

I jerked my gaze up to see him watching me again.

"I'm fine. Just—" I waved a hand around in general, trying to formulate something that made sense. Nothing came to mind.

"Relax," Logan said finally, and I smiled a little at that, then glanced away.

"Logan—"

He stopped, turning around to give me a curious look.

"Why do they—does everyone think I went up there on purpose? On the Statue?"

Something chased across his face—something bright-painful, sharp and raw as the day it'd happened, and I wished I hadn't asked yet, waited until he was more secure with my existence. So they'd perpetrated a lie—most people who did this sort of thing to dead people tended not to have to answer to them later.

"We needed a symbol," he said slowly, carefully, as if he were picking his way across a room of broken glass with bare feet. I could see on his face that it did, and I nodded, the other questions, even the accusations of what they'd used me for, dampened a little in the knowledge of the pain of my death for him. I wanted answers, but I couldn't get them from him. Not now. "Marie, I didn't—"

"It's okay," I said softly, and even believed it at that moment. Keeping my eyes down, I waited and he waited, then I heard his footsteps pad softly away.

* * *

Two nights of safety in Logan's apartment, and I figured I was ready to face the world again.

Tempting though it was to remain curled up under his blankets indefinitely and have him bring me food for the duration of my stay, I knew I couldn't—not if I wanted out of here, and certainly not if I didn't want to attract unwanted attention. When Logan went to campus the next morning, I went with him, curled into the front seat in school sweats that were about four sizes too big and aware that I didn't look my best under these conditions.

I wanted make-up and hair gel. Shit, I just wanted my hair back. And women's deodorant. Was that too much to ask? Damn, I was being girly. And I really didn't care.

"Marie—"

I looked up from my self-pity party as we came to a sudden stop in the garage. A quick glance around confirmed that we'd arrived. I hadn't realized we'd gotten out of New York already, yet here we were in Westchester. Logan flipped the engine off and turned toward me, giving me a long look.

I'd been avoiding looking directly at him so far that morning. Blue flannel and white t-shirts did something to my libido—always had. Probably should have figured out the connection around the time I convinced Bobby to get flannel sheets for our bed, but hey, no one ever gave me awards for my perceptiveness. The worn brown leather jacket, butter soft and so well-used it clung to him perfect, was just icing on the proverbial Logan-cake. And it didn't hurt at all that the shortened dark hair emphasized the strong bones of his face in ways that did a pitter-patter routine around heart-level.

God, he looked good. God, I needed to prioritize.

"Yeah?" I tore my gaze down to fix on his duffel bag between us, catching the edges of his smile.

"Meet me here after lunch, okay?" He reached out and pulled my face up, expression perfectly serious. "We'll go contact Hank then."

Slowly, I nodded. Had I ever noticed his eyes were the perfect shade of hazel? Not too brown, not too green, flickering in and out in a strangely hypnotic pattern that I wanted to spend some quality time studying. A tap to my chin dragged me back into the real world and I flushed, dropping my gaze back to—the duffel bag.

It was brown canvas and as non-sexy as things came. Or so you'd think.

"All right. Try to stay outta Jeannie's way, 'kay? Scott'll be too busy to wonder 'bout you." With that, a proclamation of intent to Distract Scott, he got up and out, and I hastily turned toward the door, pushing it open numbly and leaning forward—

—crap, I forgot to take off the seatbelt.

Fumbling it off, I felt him looking at me again and wondered if I looked like a tomato yet. With a smirk I caught from the corner of my eye, he wandered off and I leaned against the car and thought about what to do first.

Shower. Change clothes. Go hide somewhere. In that order.

Kitty wasn't in our room, and I was so glad that my mood took an upswing as I pushed the door closed and walked to the small dresser across from my bed that I'd packed my clothes in. Pulling out a long-sleeved blue cotton shirt, I dropped it on the bed and pulled out a pair of jeans and a pair of leather gloves I'd grabbed in the leather shop. I missed my wardrobe—it was extensive and creative and had flair, with gauze and silk and spandex and skirts, giving me full body-coverage and some claim to fashion.

I was beginning to feel like a reject from the grunge age now.

And the _gloves—_I shivered and peeled off the felt, dropping them on the bed and running my hands over the fine leather. I hadn't bought off-the-rack in years—Xavier had found me a specialty shop run by a gamma class mutant who had all my gloves fitted and hand-sewn. My formal wear too, but always the gloves, that I needed to do even simple things. I had dozens of pairs—silk, leather, gauze, velvet, satin, vinyl, cotton, wool, and nylon. All so perfectly made that I hadn't gotten a glove-related callous in years. Summer and winter and autumn and spring, all colors, all styles.

I could be accused of a glove fetish, come to think of it.

Pulling on the gloves, I checked their flexibility—I hadn't skimped on quality at least. Very nice. Slightly too wide in the finger and palm, but the finger length was okay, and they reached halfway to my elbow. So far so good. Making a fist, I felt the soft leather bunch and twist. Not perfect, certainly not what I was used to, spoiled as I was, but they would do. Stripping it off, I rummaged for the other pair I'd grabbed before checking out, plain cotton. Cotton was flexible. Cotton was shrinkable. I could soak my hands with these in hot water and get a perfect fit, or close to.

A pity I hadn't grabbed some scarves while shopping, but then again, I just had to think that might have been a bad idea.

Putting the cotton back for later, when I'd make some time to customize them, I grabbed my last pair of underwear and closed the drawer. The bathroom was dark and I used my shoulder to flick the light on, putting my clothes down on the toilet and unpinning my wig, tossing it on the toilet. Unsurprisingly, it slid right off the slick white surface and plunked onto the floor between the toilet and the shower. Great. Removing the pins, I carefully laid them in a small pile at the back of the sink and finger-brushed my hair quickly. The mirror reflected a stranger, and I tapped the glass experimentally, watching the green eyed woman do the same.

I wished I hadn't inherited Carol's eyes.

Turning away, I stripped off the sweats and tossed them in the laundry basket by the door, then flipped the shower on. Oh crap. Towel check. There we are. We're good. I stacked two on top of my clean clothes, considered retrieving the wig, and then shook my head and got in.

Hot shower. Long hot shower. No one was looking for me, I could conceivably take a nice, long, bubbly bath and meditate on the fact I was in a foreign world. Nah. Go for the shower. I picked up Kitty's shampoo and thoroughly wet my hair.

Shit, I needed a razor. And my own deodorant—I'd picked up a toothbrush at the mall that first day, but forgot the deodorant. For some reason, it just felt wrong to use Kitty's. Didn't mean I wouldn't, just—I sighed. I had eight dollars. I'd go shopping.

Somewhere less stressful than the mall.

"Marie? You in here?"

Kitty. How nice. I rinsed out the soap from my hair, closing my eyes and losing anything she said in the interim of rushing water through my ears. I surfaced as the bathroom doorknob turned and I realized with a spurt of horror—

—oh dear God, I hadn't locked the door. Obviously, I'd gotten _way_ too comfortable at Logan's.

"Marie?"

The shower curtain was a perky yellow. Couldn't see much of anything through yellow. Kitty had always been a private bathroom person—why the _hell_ was she in here?

"Yeah," I managed, putting down the shampoo and wondering what on earth to do now. I couldn't put my finger on why exactly it felt weird to start the body-washing process with Kitty a vinyl curtain away, but it did. Very weird. "Need something?"

"Bobby thought he saw you come in. We're running into town to pick up some stuff, and he said you didn't have much when you got here. You wanna go?"

The Razor and Deodorant Gods were laughing their asses off. Ask and ye shall receive indeed. I spit out water that got into my gaping mouth and nodded, then realized she couldn't see me.

"Sure," I answered as I pushed my hair back from my face. "Give me five minutes." The white streak was in my eyes, I needed to do a quick conditioning before I got out. My hair—

—my hair was on the floor. By the toilet. God and little sheep, this couldn't be anything but bad.

"Cool." Through the curtain, I could see her silhouette take a step toward the sink while I froze under the semi-boiling-hot water, much as a deer might in headlights. She'd see the pins. She'd notice—

"Damn, when did I leave these out?"

There went my pins. I heard her opening several drawers, the cabinet, tried to identify where my pins were going, but no dice. My pins were gone. My wig was on the floor.

I needed her out of the bathroom before she went cleaning this direction.

"Um, Kitty—"

"Yeah?" Another drawer opening.

"Could I—um, you know...." Crap, would it be suspicious if I asked for privacy? Would it be even _more_ suspicious if I didn't? Was this a test?

_—Are you paranoid, honey?—_

_—Carol, if you can't be constructive, go back on hiatus.—_

There was a faint inner chuckle and then she faded back to watch the show. I wished I wasn't so amusing to my other personalities. Disturbing thought, that.

"Huh? Oh!" I heard her open and shut a drawer. "Sure, babe. Sorry. Be right outside."

Translation—I could NOT get out of this bathroom without going right by her. Turning slightly as she shut the door behind her, I hit my head on the tile and saw stars.

They were laughing at me too.

As quickly as I could, I washed off and rerinsed my hair, checking out the bathroom quickly before grabbing my towel. I wanted to lock the door so badly I could taste it, but somehow, I just didn't think that would engender any affection. If they were suspicious, it would only make it more so. Perhaps suspicious enough to check out what I was doing behind a locked door.

Wrapping a towel around my hair, I grabbed the other one and stepped out, leaving the shower on. The happy yellow rug under my feet was an insult to my panic. Drying off, I pulled on my underwear and shirt, pulling on the jeans and bouncing when I realized they were a size too small. Mental note—always check the sizes. Always. I pulled up the wig and straightened it a little before plopping it on the toilet and dropping the wet towel over it.

Just in case.

Okay, pins. Not this drawer, how does Kitty organize again? Panic wiped out my functional brain. I frantically made my way through all three drawers on the sink before remembering Kitty kept hair thingies in the cabinet and spun around, jerking open the door. The sheer level of organization stopped me mid gulp. She had a system. Me and Jubes had never paid attention. God, I wish we had.

I needed my pins. Just do it, Rogue. I mean, uh, Marie. Calm. Calm.

The first shelf was brushes and combs and curling irons—oh, a hair dryer. Remember that. Second shelf—tampons, pads, embarrassing stuff. Speaking of that, I needed to grab a few. Moving on—soap, hair gel, barrettes, hair clips, hair—pins.

My pins. Oh thank you GOD.

I dumped out the ones on top and pulled the towel off, grabbing my wig and almost inserting my head in the cabinet. The cabinet door blocked the view from the door and partially from the mirror. That was good. Very good. Brushing quickly, I secured my hair into manageability and shoved in the pins as quickly as I could, before dropping the wig on top. A quick check of the mirror to assure it was straight, then I went to town making sure the chin-skimming blonde was secured so tightly that a tornado would find it still attached to me. It was a little damp from the towel, but I'd been in the shower. It was all good.

Panic subsiding, I went back to the shower and checked for traces of white hair. None. That was nice. Then hung the towels neatly so they could dry, before checking my appearance in the mirror. The blonde woman was startling—but then, she was every time. I could almost swear I was starting to _look_ like Carol.

_—Not really—_Carol remarked caustically. —_Too thin and the lips are too big.—_

_—Full—_I corrected automatically. No defense for my body—I _was_ thin and all the hoping in the world wouldn't round out my body any further. I didn't think it would have hurt that if I got Carol's eyes I also got her breast size. —_I have full lips.—_Pouty lips, even. Not big. I ran a hand through the blonde wig, vaguely startled to see the mirror do the same thing. —_I look so—different.—_

_—You look fine, darlin'.—_

I tilted my head.

_—You never talk to me when I'm undressed.—_ It was meant to be a tease, but it suddenly occurred to me—Logan had _never _been vocal during my naked periods. —_Why is that?—_ I was genuinely curious.

_—You wanna get out there before they come knockin'?—_

It was as transparent an evasion as he'd ever bothered with and I was surprised he'd even tried. He had a point, though, and I nodded with one last look before pulling on my gloves and pushing the door open—but not before securing a couple of tampons in one pocket for the trip. Kitty looked up from her bed, where she was reading a back issue of Vogue, tossing out a bright smile. She looked nice—bright blue blouse, matching skirt, cute little shoes, and that perfect lipstick color that I'd never been able to find for myself. Easily could have posted for _Mutant Mademoiselle_ or something. I felt a longing for my wardrobe so sharp that was almost painful.

"Hey." She gave me a once-over that made me painfully aware that my jeans were about an inch too short. "Get your shoes and come on. Bobby's driving."

Bobby was driving. I might not survive this.

* * *

We went into Salem Ce-Complex, somehow completely avoiding going anywhere near the camp. My database searching a few days earlier had given me some of the rough stats on the sucker; it was big. Ten miles on the short side, fifteen on the long. A pretty good rectangle, covering a nice section of Salem Center and some of the surrounding countryside to the east. In the distance, I got a glimpse of the watch towers, but nothing more, and the giggling group with me didn't seem interested in looking.

I wondered if it made them uncomfortable. Or maybe they were just holding down their breakfast from Bobby's driving. I winced when what should have been a tiny bump tossed us all upward—there was something vaguely wrong about trying to break land-speed records in a vehicle designed for luxury driving.

It was a nice car, though—later model BMW, and very, very close to getting wrapped around a tree, signpost, or some random object that was foolish enough to get in Bobby's general area. I swallowed hard as Bobby performed a interesting maneuver that got us past a light I could have sworn was red, glad I hadn't eaten anything at Logan's but some dry toast. Bobby couldn't drive. Not well. Not with people. Probably not alone either. Luckily, there wasn't much in the way of traffic to maul. Piled in the front seat were Kitty and Betsy, who gave me a narrowed look before turning her full attention back to whatever Bobby was saying. Pressed uncomfortably close to my right was Johnny, pushing me into the door, and Piotr and Remy completed the group.

Jubilee wasn't here, and I had a bad feeling that if I went to that cemetery again, I'd know why. A search of Kitty's memories would give me the answer and so would a simple question to Logan, but I'd avoided it.

"Marie?"

I turned to face Johnny, who was only inches away, and automatically my body wanted to retreat. I held it masterfully in place, proud of my self-control, though the fact that I was flat against the left side passenger door was probably the more accurate reason for the fact I was still in the seat.

"Yeah?"

"Logan got the report on your car. You should have it back soon."

"Oh good." Hopefully, he'd figure out the weirdness of that entire—whoa doggies, how the hell did _Johnny_ know my car was missing? "Where we going?" Better not get too flustered—he was on beta team and did security stuff, so he'd have access to the reports. Of course.

"The mall."

Oh. Just damned peachy—the mall. Shoulda guessed. That nice, blank, deserted mall full of scared people. Bobby took another corner at ninety degrees, as if trying to prove a BMW was actually an acrobat in disguise. I was thrown into the door, and Johnny was pressed up into every inch of me for a few brief seconds as we straightened out on the road.

His face brushed my hair and I reacted, hand going to the door, jerking loose of my seatbelt effortlessly. Three cheers for super strength.

Thirteen second later, the car was turned around and slowly making its way back to me like a whipped puppy, as I sat on the side of the road, breathing out slowly and fighting the urge to run.

Inner Logan and Inner Carol were too utterly aghast to even bother yelling at me. My head was echoing silent. It was all good.

Slowly, the passenger side window rolled down and Kitty peered out.

"You okay, Marie?" Her voice was but two degrees removed from that used on psychiatric patients standing on high ledges. I fought the urge to try out a manic grin.

Well, yeah, I was okay. Invulnerability had its advantages—to wit, one Rogue, one asphalt road, a little rolling, a bit of hovering. I would have been out of the car even if I hadn't been pretty much immune to the effects of sliding on painfully abrading surfaces, but it was nice to know my mutation was useful for keeping me alive during the process of evacuation from a moving vehicle trying to top the Indie 500's maximum speeds. Johnny had had a seatbelt on, I'd noted before I kicked the door closed during my jump. That was good too.

He was also conscious and un-absorbed, and that was even better.

"Fine." I didn't move. I wasn't sure I was going to move for a damn long time. At least until the urge to pee in terror had passed. That could be never.

"Ummm—is everything okay?"

Oh, I should probably explain. Uh....

"Claustrophobia."

It popped out with a faintly Santa Fe accent, Carol having the sense to realize I probably wasn't up to talking. My skin burned as if St. John had touched it, and God, if he had brushed me, he could be—

—let's not think about that or you'll be taking a bathroom break right here, clothes or no clothes. And these, before my acrobatics, were some fairly nice jeans, even if they were too small.

Kitty frowned at my statement, then the brown eyes widened in sympathy. Betsy was scowling, muttering something to Bobby, but I ignored her.

"Oh. I'm sorry, chica." She was thinking, obviously. "Betsy, move to the back seat. Would you feel better up front, babe, by the window? I can phase out so you don't feel as crowded."

Oh wow. I had to give Kit credit for brilliance. That was a damn good idea. I nodded, standing up and dusting off my jeans. There was a hole in the knee. Crap.

The exchange was fast and Kitty scooted over, almost instantly phasing out as I carefully got in and sat down. Behind me, the conversation was in whispers—they were wondering what camp experience I'd had that would lead to that sort of reaction. Their imaginations would do far better to supply the info than I ever could, so I leaned against the door and steadied my breathing, casually laying a gloved hand over my knee.

When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw Johnny's steady gaze on me and quickly fixed my eyes back on the deserted road ahead. It was the longest trip to the mall in my life.

* * *

The first thing I noticed was that there were _a lot_ of mutants doing their shopping this time. All kinds—not so many alpha class, but tons of the others, chatting and wandering around, generally acting like normal people. Was this Mutant Shopping Day? Should I mark my calendar?

I also noticed that most of the people who worked the stores were mutants too—not all, but most. Easy to spot on even the most human-looking ones—not a trace of blue on their wrists and wearing an ID around their neck, similar to mine. Kitty had apparently grabbed mine off the dresser before we left, because she'd presented it to me at the mall door, showing me her own draped just above the dropped neckline of her yellow blouse.

"Get used to always wearing it. This is Institute-issue." As if that explained everything. I needed to ask Logan a few more questions. Nodding as if I completely understood, I'd slipped it over my head and felt like an oppressor waiting for a minority to harass. Dear God.

However, the shopping went without major incident, and I suspected that this little get-together was not only planned, but specifically planned for me. Kitty, being Kitty, dragged me and Betsy into half a dozen shops within the first few hours as the guys waited outside—hold it....

_Why_ weren't Bobby, Johnny, and the boys making for the comic book stores like the world would end if they didn't break some speed records getting there?

"Kitty," I asked at the seventh shop, clutching the our purchases as she held up yet another short sleeved blouse. I wanted long sleeves. She didn't quite understand that yet. "Why are the guys waiting outside?"

"They don't like this store." She ducked back into the stand, frowning in concentration, then picked up and discarded something in butter yellow.

"I mean," I said, shifting the bag—three pairs of jeans were resting inside, she was quick and had gotten my size on a glance. She had that sort of talent. I envied it. I couldn't pick my own size without trying on first. "Why aren't they—you know, going somewhere else?"

"Security."

I blinked.

"What?"

Kitty looked at me and held up a frothy green gauze shirt. Long sleeved, cute little pearl buttons. I wanted it. And told her so.

"Cool. Let's find something for underneath. And yeah, security." She pushed into another rack, going through the sizes with the precision of a born shopper. There was a reason why Jubilee and Kitty always went with me when I went shopping at home. I liked to look good, granted. But left to myself, I _would_ be a reject of the grunge age, with pretty gloves and scarves. Just no talent at this sort of thing.

"Here?"

Kitty shrugged.

"Everywhere. Never do we go out in less than groups of three or more. Never do we get separated from each other. It's a precaution—humans escape the camps sometimes, and less than a year ago, one killed eight mutants before she was stopped."

"Wow."

"Took them out like a sniper. So we go in groups—watch each other's back. Besides, I'm not exactly the most powerful in a fight. Sure, I can phase and I have the training, but against enough humans—" she shrugged delicately and emerged from the rack again with something red and silky. Oh, that was nice. "Perfect with your coloring too. It's coming winter anyway, so you're smart to shop for cold-weather clothes."

"I spent time in the south, so my blood's thinner." It wasn't exactly inaccurate. Except in the heat of summer, I was pretty comfortable with my wardrobe in New York, truth be told. The human body was remarkably adaptable to normal ambient temperature.

We checked out and Bobby's eyes lingered on the garment bag carrying the two shirts—I kept my eyes focused straight ahead and tried not to blush. He'd always had a thing for me and the color red. Betsy and Piotr lingered near the back, and every so often I felt the brief flutter of her mind against mine, testing my shields.

I _really_ wanted to slap her.

The next stop was the food court—and here I saw humans. Lots of humans, under the watchful eyes of a group of grey-uniformed mutants who looked like they were enjoying their job just a little too much. The humans worked steadily behind the counters, cleaning up the floor—got it. Menial labor. Some of them probably had doctorates, and they were used for this.

I couldn't be around them. Period and end.

"Marie?" Kitty's voice sounded far away. I was staring at a thirty year old woman with scars criss-crossing her face, and the flash of dark blue on her wrist with every turn of the mop was an accusation I'd never be able to stand up against.

"I'll be back." I dropped the purchases on the table, making a beeline for anywhere out of the large rounded white court with it's shiny clean tiles and skidded on the smooth floor because I was almost at a run. No way to call claustrophobia on this. Well, screw it.

I got around a corner and realized Kitty was right. No one was alone in here—normal at a mall, unless you were really watching, and now I was. Groups—more than three or four, sometimes ten. They were wearing weaponry—under jackets, tucked into jeans. I clutched the ID around my throat, knowing a quick twist would bring it off in component pieces. I really wanted to do it. I wasn't one of these people and I didn't _want_ to be one of these people.

"You shouldn't go alone."

St. John, of course. I wondered if someone was sitting on Bobby to keep him in place. Or maybe he was just hungry—nothing came between Bobby and food, even recalcitrant love interests.

"I can fly, I'm invulnerable, and I'm stronger than five of you. I'm not hungry." That was an understatement. I could break adamantium—not without _a lot_ of effort and general exhaustion afterward, but I could do it.

He was leaning against the corner as if he was prepared to wait until I started seeing reason.

"You're still alone." He tilted his head. "Snipers took out a superhealer, Marie. The camps showed all of us the ways it could be done. Humans remember."

"And mutants don't forget," I answered softly.

The icy blue eyes fixed on me briefly, as if trying to divine by sheer strength of will what was going on in my head.

"They killed your sister. You're not bitter?"

They tortured Logan, tortured Kitty, killed Xavier and Jubilee. God alone knew what they'd done to the survivors that changed them into the people I was with today. I was all kinds of bitter. But this—I wanted to say yes and no and maybe, and I wanted to leave without another word. I didn't do any of those things.

"I don't want to talk about it."

He nodded slowly, as if he understood, but the blue eyes didn't lose their cool appraisal and I shivered a little, turning away, viewing the mall with the many groups of far-too-well-armed mutants coming and going at ease. There was the leather shop. I had the credit card in my pocket. Might as well use it.

As I began to walk, I wasn't surprised at all at how St. John materialized at my side, matching my stride easily.

"Why don't any of you go armed?" I asked, waving an arm around at the mutants around us. In response, St. John flattened a palm and I watched him call fire without so much as a twitch of effort. Well, that answered that. Guns and weaponry were all well and good, but I supposed being able to burn someone up at a distance was a hell of a lot more useful than a bullet would be.

"Remy does projectiles, and Betsy and Kitty have problems with guns." He shrugged a little. "As long as the two of them don't go anywhere without someone who has proactive powers, they're safe enough." He paused, surveying the stores. "Where're we going?"

"I need more gloves." Oh God, did I say that out loud? Was I _trying_ to blow my cover completely?

_—Honey, you have to calm down.—_

Like I needed advice on decorum from my resident sociopath.

_—Look, love to chat, babe, but I have suspicions to diffuse and things to do here. And panic. I want to get some time to myself and panic.—_

She giggled and I could almost feel her shake her head at me. Nothing on earth could just floor me so much as Carol giggling. It just didn't_ fit_.

_—You're overreacting. Let him think you have a glove fetish.—_

Technically, I did.

"Gloves?" His eyes dropped to rest on my hands and I wanted to curl them up and tuck them under my jeans. I satisfied myself with locking them behind my back.

"I like gloves."

"So I've seen." His voice was a cool neutral—blue if I wanted to assign a color. Nothing else. This was St. John, after all; he had the uncomfortable silence routine down to a fine art. Somewhere along the line in his life, he'd learned how most people _didn't_ like extended silences and used his accordingly. He was trying to unnerve me.

Oddly, the thought was cheering. I knew how to handle that.

Walking inside, I was assaulted with the fresh smell of treated animal skins on display. Belts, hats, and scarves spread across racks and counters, black, brown, and a rich, dark red that made my mouth water. Gloves. Looking for gloves—there was the long sets, the short sets, the—oh dear God.

My eyes found the long length of black and traveled up over the leather coat hanging in the place of honor near the center of the store. My first trip here hadn't exactly been under prime shopping circumstances; I'd missed it completely. God knew how. Forgetting St. John, I followed my libido across the cool blue carpet and came to a dead stop, reaching out with one hand to touch the exquisite lines.

Oh God, gorgeous. I stripped off a glove automatically, running the tips of my fingers over it, the leather so fine it was butter against my skin. I ran a wondering hand over the inner lining.

"You like it?"

Johnny, just behind me and to my left—not near my bare right hand. I took a second, decided not to panic and shove the glove back on—that would look suspicious. Instead, I nodded slowly and St. John turned around. From the corner of my eye, I saw him motion sharply at the nearby salesperson.

"Get it down."

I frowned and tore my hand away, stepping back and almost colliding with his body. Keeping my bare hand close to my stomach, I steadied myself and shook my head.

"I can't afford that—"

Wow, that was a weird look. He frowned slightly, and I wondered what that meant, before the salesperson skittered around me and I saw a flash of blue on the inner wrist. Flushing, I took another step back as he reached up and removed it from the hook, holding it up with the most perfectly expressionless face I'd ever seen. No one looked like that on accident. They had to practice being that utterly neutral.

This close though, over the smell of leather, I picked up his fear.

"Try it on," St. John invited, and hastily, the man removed it from the hangar, holding it up again. I was supposed to step into it with him holding it. That was new and all kinds of different. Salespeople in Salem kept a very consistent five feet between me and them—perhaps with some sort of object as well, like a rack or a car or, you know, a building. For safety—they didn't have to know my specific mutation to be afraid.

I couldn't back down without looking silly, and St. John's gaze was unnerving—slowly, I tucked one arm in the jacket, unable to really help the sensual pleasure of the leather against my cotton-covered skin. My other arm went through, and I tucked my right hand into the pocket as he settled it around my shoulder and I felt the weight brush over my calves. St. John smiled a little, gesturing me toward the mirror, and I slowly stepped over and took a look.

It was love at first sight. The length was absolutely perfect, the sleeves reached just below my wrist so I could wear short gloves instead of long. Surrounded with the rich smell of expensive leather, I let myself, just for a second, indulge in pure feminine vanity. I looked damn good, even as a blonde. I wanted this coat.

"Looks good. Anything else you want, Marie?"

I blinked and turned around, feeling with feminine vanity the attractive swirl it must have made around my legs. Much more attractive with some leather pants to match, or a short skirt. Maybe some better boots too. Pushing the unworthy thoughts aside, I shook my head.

"I can't—"

"Sure you can. What else?"

Stunned, I opened my mouth to answer when I was interrupted.

"God, Marie, that looks fabulous!"

Oh dear God. It was Kitty and Co.

With a sense of inevitability, I watched everyone tramp inside in various stages of admiration, surrounding me with too many bodies and hands that seemed intent on feeling out the coat with me inside. Not good for my already tense nerves. The salesman moved discreetly out of the way and I didn't miss how completely everyone seemed to just—not notice him. Like he wasn't even there. Kitty turned me around against my weak protests, running expert hands along the seams and back, resettling it across my shoulders and checking the fit.

"Perfect, babe." Her smile was a thousand watts. "Leather." A _really_ weird smile stole across her face then. "He likes leather."

_Who_ likes leather?

"Kitty, what—"

"She needs gloves to match." St. John was leaning back into the shelf, watching us with a curiously detached expression. I fumbled the coat off, holding it in my bare right hand, hopefully covering it well. Kitty paused, meeting St. John's eyes, then turned back to me with a quick nod.

"Grab some gloves, babe. I'll—"

"You ever stop shoppin', Kitty?"

It was like light between the big storm clouds. Like water after the desert. Like salt on popcorn. It was Logan, at the door of the shop, looking more amused than any three people on earth. Large and strong and _there_ and oh, damn...

I was three steps from throwing myself at him before I remembered I still had the coat.

"Logan!" Kitty turned, skipping toward him with utter confidence, and the first prick of jealousy flickered through my body. Hmmm. Kitty and Logan had a good relationship? Why was this bad? They were pretty close in my world.

Kitty paused a step away, and Logan brushed her face with the tips of his fingers.

Okay, not that close. Grrr. I mean, hmmm.

"Whatcha doing here?" From my frozen position beside St. John, I could see her slight smile, and it widened as her eyes rested on me briefly before facing Logan again. Okay, double weirdness.

"Marie's got an appointment. Kurt said you went out." Logan didn't move from the doorway, but his gaze fixed down on Kitty with utterly unmistakable warmth. "Done with her yet?"

With a scarily wide smile, Kitty dumped two of the three bags and the garment bag in Logan's arms—whoa, hold it. I didn't remember getting all that. Both his eyebrows jumped and she turned around and returned to us, tossing me a wink and circling around me, pushing me toward the door, coat clutched helplessly in my hand.

"Go along—I'll pay for the coat and get you the gloves. Go. Scoot." Scoot? Another push and I tried to figure out why I was resisting, before I was unceremoniously hauled to a stop. "Had fun, Marie! Byes!"

I glimpsed a sour expression on Bobby's face and let my eyes rest briefly on St. John before I quickly said my goodbyes and fled the sheer weirdness of the store as quickly as possible. Logan repositioned my bags in one hand, resting the other just below my collar. I noticed he was wearing gloves.

"I can carry those," I said as we walked toward the far exit, tentatively reaching for the bags.

"No problem." Not much else. Okay.

"Did you get in touch with—him?"

Logan gave me a patient look. Probably not a good idea to mention the subterfuge in the middle of a mall. So I could have non-bright moments. It figured. Glancing down at my arm, I looked at the coat.

"I didn't mean to buy this."

Logan gave it a glance and we came to a stop as I held it up. It _was_ gorgeous, no question. And I _really_ liked it. And it wasn't that big a deal—a new coat. Everyone needed coats. They were like underwear.

I still needed deodorant. Damn.

"Can I run a few more errands while we're here?"

Logan looked down on me and almost sighed. Oh yeah, that was familiar.

"Sure, baby." His glance went to the coat as I carefully refolded it over my arm, stroking it gently. "I like that."

"The coat?" See, I wasn't the only one. It was perfect. And mine.

"Yeah." He shrugged a little as we started walking toward the Body Shop. I knew they had deodorant. "I like leather."

* * *

There were one thousand, nine hundred and sixteen camps scattered across the eastern United States. Only five in New York Zone, though, the center of mutant power and privilege. Where I lived. What I was a part of.

Electric fences, eighteen feet high, nine hundred sixteen feet long, five hundred forty-five feet wide. Razor wire lining the top, spun so fine it could cut off your fingers with the most casual brush of your hand, bright silver and strangely beautiful.

I can't say I have a fabulous memory, but I knew my statistics now. They were burned into my mind as deeply as the ink soaked into human wrists.

I didn't know why I came out here, while Logan went to make contact with whoever it was that would contact Hank for him. Call it weird masochism. I didn't live here, I wasn't responsible for this. Except it bore my name and had been erected in my honor and something about that made it all about me—that here, I'd been the same frightened girl depending on others to save her. It'd been a long time since I'd been that little girl. And I hated her—hated her for dying and letting this start. All any war needs is a spark—one assassination, one death, one rallying cry, one single, shining event. Franz Ferdinand, Czechoslavakia, or Rogue, take your pick. They had me and they used me. And they—the ones that knew, the ones that crawled up that statue trying to save humanity—they'd built the lie themselves.

Shit, they'd had seven years. They might have forgotten the sixteen year old girl who screamed for help because she didn't want to die.

The camps were crap—the buildings dilapidated and so close to falling over that I shivered. Concrete ripped apart in chunks and thrown like children's toys across what had to have been once immaculate lawns, reminders of the war no one really could forget—or wanted to. The smell was horrible—sewer was either not working or simply abandoned for cruder methods of waste disposal.

_—Why are you doing this?—_ Carol, voice soft, whispering in my head, letting me keep my connection to the real world.

I didn't need to answer. I think she understood.

This had been a beautiful part of the city, upper-middle class apartment buildings, gorgeous trees, big green lawns, children's playgrounds. Everything beautiful and wholesome and simple, the life I'd longed for, the one thing I knew as a mutant was forever denied me. It was nothing now but the burnt-out remains of prejudice and hate, and people lived there, normal people. In hellish conditions, like a third-world country dropped in the middle of the pristine landscape.

Pulling my new coat more closely around me, I watched the children play.

Little girl—long brown hair, big blue eyes, maybe six. Clean, extremely so—I had to suppose that the occupants were afraid of disease from the lack of sanitary conditions. Smart people. Her clothes were as dirty as all children's were, but faded, obvious hand-me-downs of poor initial quality anyway. She was laughing, tripping with heart-stopping rapidity among the chunks of concrete and bare strands of browned grass, as if this was normal to her. And it probably was. She probably hadn't even been born when Rogue died.

The kids had gotten chalk and marked up the short remains of a sidewalk, and I remembered my own childhood playing that game, though God knew, I couldn't remember a single rule—it'd been too long. She threw a rock and hopped her way across, losing her balance with the third jump on badly-repaired concrete and falling with a scream loud enough to wake the dead. Instinctively, I moved toward her, stopping inches from the barbed wire, and watched a woman run out from a crumbling door, hair loose, obviously called from doing something else, not even wearing shoes.

That bothered me. I hadn't seen anyone behind that fence wear shoes yet.

The woman scooped her up, checking her knee and chin, and then the woman's vivid blue eyes turned on me. Never had I ever seen anything like what was reflected on that woman's face. Sixteen feet or sixteen inches, I could have felt it the same, the blank terror that washed over her face, over her body, stiffening it instantly.

Dear God, what was done to her, to make her look like that?

Before I could even begin to assimilate that, she said something to the other children and all eyes went to me, standing there watching them. And they—they scattered, no other word for it. Running toward broken doors to hide inside and curtains rushed into place over windows so nothing could be seen within.

Fear. Absolute, cowering fear. My kind, what I was—my clothes marked me out, my position outside the fence, Logan's car behind me. Things they didn't have anymore, things that branded me far more obviously than my mutation ever had or ever could.

"What are you doing?"

Logan behind me, and I shut my eyes tight. He was—they were—responsible for this. For those people and that little girl and this fence.

"Admiring the fine work that comes of hate, sugar."

"It's a different world, Marie."

"Tell me about it," I whispered.

"Was it better, to live where you were hated and they could hurt you? Where they ran experiments on you and where you never knew if you'd live through each day? Shit, baby, is your world such a great damned place, where we didn't win?"

I half-turned, looking at him.

"Logan never would have asked that. He knew the answer." I wanted to grab the fence and pull it down—and you know, I could have. Not that it would have done any good.

"I'm not him."

I swallowed in a dry throat, refusing to face the obvious.

"Erik said the war was coming."

"And we won it. After everything else they did to us, took from us, destroyed. We won it, Marie. You blame us for that? For this?" He waved at the fence. "The human population outnumbers us over three hundred thousand to one even now. Change is slow. We don't have the numbers or the energy to fight the war again. Or take the losses that'll happen if we let them out. Too many died the first time, too fucking many. Kids who had the gene were slaughtered before they even showed the signs. They killed infants when they found the gene early enough. They committed genocide as a first resort." He paused. "Tell me there's a better way."

I wanted to. God, did I. I wanted to blame the X-Men, hate them, tell them that never, never, never would we have done what they did. Except—except we had, here. This was what we could be, so easily, and shit, Magneto had been right. More right than I ever guessed.

It didn't seem like winning or losing. It wasn't right versus wrong at all, and it made me sick. There were the victors and the losers, and we'd be one or the other. In my world, there was still the balance between, that every single day could lead to this. This could be my future too.

_—Keep thinking like that.— _Logan's voice was wry. —_Believe it, even. Nothing in black and white, everything relative, and sit back and say, okay. This is how it happens. This is how you build a lie you can believe. And they do believe, baby. They believe what they're doing is right.—_

_—I didn't fight for this. I never would have fought for this. I'd rather be hated in my own world, and persecuted and tortured and even killed. But I never wanted this. Never.—_

_—But could watch your friends tortured and killed for being mutant? Watch your family killed? See children exterminated and experimented on? Ask yourself that real quick, darlin'. If you saw them go through what these people did—wouldn't you change?—_

I blinked back into reality and Logan's hand was on my elbow, turning me around.

"Marie."

"'There but for the grace of God go I'," I quoted and shook myself.

_—You—you think this is a good thing, Logan? This is something you want?—_

_—No. But I didn't live it here either. I didn't lose you, I wasn't tossed into those camps, and I didn't go through what they did.—_

Fuck him for being reasonable. I didn't want reasonable.

"You don't need to see this if it bothers you this much. Let's go."

I nodded numbly, turning around to the car, and Logan opened my door. Slowly, I slid inside and closed my eyes as I listened to Logan get in, shut his door, and start the engine.

"Hits you hard." He gave me a glance as we pulled out, and I saw his glance flicker back toward the camp again. "Sorry—I forgot it's different for you."

"Yeah, it is." I lifted my head, staring out the window. "I can't—I can't see that and take it like you do, Logan. And I'm not sorry that I can't. You're right—I didn't see everything they did, everything they did to you. I don't—I have the second-hand memories now, but it's not the same." I shut my eyes again. "But I can't think it's right. It's not."

"That's not what matters. This is survival, Marie. Pure and simple."

_—This is how it happens. Put everything in grey and say there's no such thing as right and wrong. Make it simple. Make it this.—_

And there was no way in hell to answer that, so I didn't even try.

"Where we goin'?"

"Back to the apartment to wait." He paused briefly, obviously thinking about something else altogether. "Hank'll be by tonight. Jeannie's getting too curious about you and I don't think you should show your face on campus too much if you want to escape the medical exams."

God, the exams. Forgot all about that.

"She's gonna wonder what I'm doing then."

Logan was silent at that, but it was a weird sort of silence. Like there was something he wasn't telling me. Curious, I turned in my seat, pushing my seat belt out of my way, and got a good look at his face.

If I didn't miss my guess, Logan looked uncomfortable.

"Logan, what did you tell her?"

He was staring straight out the windshield with a curiously intent look.

"I didn't tell her anything. I let her assume what she wanted to. And she assumed, and that's it."

Assumed...

"Assumed what?"

A patient sigh—shit, that was too familiar. A smile forced its way across my face.

"Marie, you've spent two nights with me. What the hell do you _think_ she's gonna assume?"

Oh God. I flushed, jerking my gaze straight down into my lap. St. John's strange looks, Bobby's frowns, Kitty's grins—got it. Well, I could be dense. No question of that.

"Does everyone—" This put a whole new complexion on the whole shopping thing.

"If you mean, have I said anything, no. If you mean, does everything think—yeah. And unless you have a better idea, just let it go" He just sounded amused. He would.

"Damn."

"Thanks." Oh hell, that did sound bad. I flushed even darker.

"I didn't mean it that way."

"Uh-huh." He hit the turn signal. "If you can think of a better reason why you've moved outta your room on campus—"

"I didn't!" Did I? Well, my toothbrush, because dental hygiene was important. And some clothes, but Kitty bought those and I hadn't time to get back—

Logan gave me a curious look.

"Unless you wanna explain how you slept on the couch, and trust me, no one will believe that."

He had a point. Damn him.

"So, what people think is covering your ass nicely. You don't have to actively avoid Bobby and the kids and you have a reason to stay outta Jean's sight."

Well, if he was going to be logical about it—damn. Well, not damn. I tried to regain a semblance of composure.

"How—how would that explain Bobby?" Because I couldn't see the connection there at all....

Logan grinned, giving me a short, amused glance before making the turn toward the checkpoint that would let us out of New York.

"Baby, I don't share."

"Oh."

* * *

Hank was perched on the couch and hadn't really moved for the entirety of the ten minutes since he'd seen me.

"It's not possible."

Logan's relatively laissez-faire attitude toward my appearance had been, in some ways, just a bit of a disappointment, even if it made my life easier. This was more the thing—blank, uncomprehending, gape-mouthed shock as I sat in the easy chair just beyond the coffee table, careful not to twitch as the large brown eyes stared into mine, before drifting over me again, inch by inch. I wondered if he needed dental records and almost offered to show him my teeth.

His scientific mind would kick into gear as soon as he got over the shock, I was sure of it. Just had to wait for the moment of shock to pass.

"Logan—" The brown eyes left me, fixing with almost desperate intensity on the man watching us. "She can't be."

Logan, stationed very strategically between Hank and the door, merely shrugged, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"Smell and sight match—I don't make mistakes, Hank. She's Rogue." A pause. "For obvious reasons, we haven't done a DNA, but if you want to do it, she'll take it. Here."

Hank shook his head sharply, but his eyes were drawn back to me like a magnet. Eww, bad comparison. I tried not to shift—one thing the mutant population had here by the ton was some serious twitchiness with sudden movements while nervous. Understandable, but not exactly comforting.

"Rogue," he said softly, and then another glance at Logan. "You—"

"Yes." No question—Logan projected immense amounts of absolute confidence and surety, and I could see, very suddenly and very vividly, why he headed security at the school, why he'd helped lead the Resistance. This was the Logan he'd never been forced to become at home. A leader.

For another stretch of endless minutes, Hank stared at me again, then let out a breath, and I let out one too. He'd made the jump—he believed.

"So you just—appeared?"

Slowly, I dropped into a chair, nodding.

"Yeah, basically." A flicked a glance at Logan. "I don't understand it, but Logan thinks—it may have something to do with Magneto's machine. He ran it again the day I arrived here."

Hank was now flipping into Scientist!Mode—the brown eyes scanned me dispassionately before the large head tilted in thought.

"So you believe that your appearance here coincides to Erik's latest utilization of his machine?"

Somehow, from Hank, it was even more awkward than what passed here for normal to hear that very personal name used. I tried not to wince, nodding. In retrospect, it sounded rather—well, silly. How could that thing drag me here?

"Think so, anyway." Letting out a breath, I almost sighed. "Look, I don't understand how—but he ran it with Polaris at the same time I appeared." I looked to Logan for support, who nodded solemnly. "It's a guess. A bad one. But at least it's something."

"And in your world, the machine worked and you didn't die?"

I frowned.

"No—it was stopped by Scott before it reached New York, and Logan touched me to heal me." I carefully didn't look at Logan. "I went on to have a semi-productive life. I was shopping at a store in Salem Center and then I found myself outside the same store here, and I came to the school. I thought—"

I had no idea what I thought—at the time, it just seemed logical. When logic is very loosely applied to what had happened to me. I leaned back into the chair, thinking through what had happened, what I still needed to do, and how many ways this was just a situation that no amount of training could ever have prepared me for.

"It was a wise choice. Who else is aware of your—existence on this plane?"

I liked how he put it—very scientific. Like this was something that happened and he was prepared to deal with it like any other freaky occurrence. Like the Hank I knew. This was a plane. Very nice. Geometric sounding, even.

"Logan." I paused, taking a breath. "I didn't know who else—"

The look Hank shot Logan was indecipherable, so fast I couldn't even begin to wonder what it meant.

"Very well," he said quickly, noting my attention. "I'll need to look some things up—the truth is, Rogue, no one quite understands how Erik's machine works, even Erik. The principles of physics behind it, yes—but we still have no clear idea what _made_ it—"

"That's easy," I said sharply. "My death."

There was a pause.

"Or the death of the host," Hank said gently. Then the softest sigh. "Rogue, I'm not sure—"

"Marie," I corrected, and my voice was still sharp, couldn't help it. "Rogue's dead."

Another lightning quick glance, and this time, Logan crossed the room, coming to stand beside my chair.

"This can't be easy for you, baby." His hands gently placed themselves on my shoulders, brushing the collar with his thumb as his fingers traveled down my neck. I didn't want to acknowledge how that still made me feel, to know that Rogue was dead. In a weird sense that made me uncomfortable—it was freeing. Liberating, even.

But mostly, just sick.

"I'm fine," I answered quickly, and dismissed everything but Hank from my mind. "I want a way home, Hank. That's all."

A slow shift, and then the brown eyes met mine.

"It's not that simple, R-Marie. It's not—"

"Not _what_?" Maybe it was stress, or the fact that my collar was on and the inner voices were silent so I didn't have any support anywhere, nothing to remind me of home. And maybe I just needed to vent—but God, was it that much to ask that someone know what the hell had happened to me?

Hank sighed softly, leaning forward, and for the first time, I thought his eyes fixed on Marie, the person, not the reincarnation of Rogue.

"I'll need to study the machine itself—" A quick glance at Logan.

"I can get you off-hour access," he answered in a neutral voice. "When?"

Hank shifted.

"Three days from now—Erik is aware I am here and I'd like to come at a time when he is _not_." There was a lot of significance in his voice and through my own misery, I had to wonder about that. Just protest against the new socio-political structure? I had no idea. Probably should care to find out. I didn't—I was too angry with myself for losing control. I buried myself in the chair and tried to clear my mind. Meditate. Think. Not react.

"Marie—" he paused, and I knew this wasn't going to be good. "Even if I—it may not be a simple thing to find out what happened to you. I want you to understand—I don't completely understand how this _could_ happen. Or why it would."

"I understand." I'd believe anyway. I'd believe that this would work out and soon I'd be home with my family. Period.

Hank rose, now looking at Logan.

"I need to leave soon." He paused for a second. "The second item you requested—" The warm brown eyes traced me briefly. "The image inducer."

I straightened and Logan leaned forward.

"You can get one?"

Hank nodded slowly, still looking at me.

"It won't be—perfect. You wanted—hair color? Slight distortion of features?"

I stopped breathing.

"You can do that?"

Hank's nod was slow but firm.

"Before I leave, I'll have it finished. It should not take long—it will be crude, but effective for at least a few weeks." He gave Logan a quick glance, then rose. "I will attempt to get a working model completed by tonight."

"Leave it here when you're done." Hank nodded in silent agreement. "Your security papers are on the counter," Logan continued, following Hank toward the kitchen. "Put the second set up—that'll get you here next time." A pause. "I keep my promises, Hank. You'll be safe."

At the door, they spoke for a few more minutes while I thought about what had happened, how little I understood it—and Hank, a certified genius in so many things—he didn't know either.

Somehow, that just made everything worse. He didn't have to say straight out that there was little chance that I'd get home—there had been, what, a one in a billion I'd be a mutant? And what _were_ the chances of this happening to me? Shit, I was the very epitome of an odds-breaker. So there.

Second biggie—I'd have my image inducer, and I could finally stop worrying about my wig, hair color, and at very least, I'd have one less thing to panic about.

Curling up a little tighter in the chair, I reached for the tea I'd almost forgotten, the unsweetened lukewarm lemon bitter on my tongue.

* * *

"Hold still."

Okay, I admit it—this was in my fantasy life. A large, handsome male on his knees in front of me—what else could a girl ask for? However, a few key differences.

One—I was dressed.

Two—no whipped cream was in evidence.

Three—sadly, this wasn't sexual. Or at least, no more sexual than it was in my world, which was depressingly little.

Keeping my arms out of the way, I twisted a little to watch as Logan unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them off my hips. Oh yeah, baby. I'm gonna have some _damn_ good dreams thanks to this. Sitting back on his heels, he picked up the small image inducer and its case, looking carefully over my currently-safe skin. Hank had dropped it by only a few hours later and Logan had pounced on it before retreating to his closet and returning with some key items he thought should be added to my wardrobe nowish.

"I'm still." He was taking a lot of time about this.

"I'm checking." For what? Oh, right. Also sitting beside him was an interesting variety of weaponry—he'd just raised a brow at me when I explained how very, very impervious I was to weaponry. A very pretty Glock all my own with its holster, an adamantium knife with a cute little sheathe—Logan was the practical type. For Christmas at home, Jean had gotten me earrings and a blue sweater and Remy had gotten me a diamond necklace. Logan invested in custom-made guns and a foot-long serrated hunting knife I kept by my bed. Used it frequently, too.

The knife, I mean. With deer. Just with deer.

Anyway, it wasn't something that particularly phased me much. Logan was Logan—he'd also made me fight for him in my brand new X-uniform, until he was sure the fit was perfect, the very day I got it. Though he had a point—a badly-fitting or restraining uniform in a combat situation could be a death wish waiting to happen. Too much of how I fought required physical agility to even take the risk of a bad fit.

I supposed, back then, it was just the idea of Logan showing any interest in clothes that made me giggle. Even now, it was a definite source of amusement.

"Relax, Marie." I almost sighed as Logan placed the projector in the hollow of my hip and, reaching for my hand, placed my fingers against it before pulling my jeans back up over it. Critically, he looked at the fit—I couldn't see a discernable bulge from my angle. It measured less than two inches by three inches and was about an inch thick. Not much. Very easily hidden—and broken, for that matter. Hence that metal case.

"That comfortable?"

I tested it with two steps—it felt odd there, but I figured I'd get used to it.

"It's okay."

Nodding, Logan pulled my jeans back down and picked up the stretchy material and the light adhesive that would keep it in place, turning me to fasten the material just below the line of my lower back. Then, carefully, he pulled my jeans back up and fastened them in place, then sat back on his heels, viewing the result critically.

"The restraint will keep it in place no matter what," he said, hand on my hip turning me to catch a side view. You sure that feels comfortable?"

"Not comfortable," I answered, frowning a little. "But I'll get used to it. Why the rest of the paraphernalia?"

He looked up at me with a raised eyebrow.

"I don't want you to leave campus or this apartment unarmed again if I'm not with you." Standing up, he picked up the shoulder holster and helped me slip my arms through, fastening it around my waist.

"Logan, I'm—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, invulnerable, super strong, like I care. Anti-mutant groups aren't exactly the sort that fire shots that they don't think will work. You don't have combative powers, baby—to use all your powers, you gotta be up close and personal, and there may be a time you need to _not_ be."

So he had a point. I didn't have to like it, though.

"What, sniper shots? When will I need to be a sniper?"

He shrugged a little as he fastened the gun in place. Very Logan. The stomach strap fit neatly below the waistline of my jeans, and my shirt, carefully fixed around it, hid it completely.

Of course, you couldn't hide the gun itself.

"All right." He gave me a long look, then nodded. "Get that coat, check the fit."

See, this was my last birthday all over again. Sighing, I fingered the collar as I went to pick up the coat and took a second to caress the lines of it. It _was _nice. Pulling it on, I took a very feminine pleasure in the swirl of it around my legs before turning around and letting Logan look at me.

Efficiently, he checked the feel of the gun under my jacket, how well it was hidden, and I grinned a little.

"This isn't—"

"Are you ever going to listen to me without arguing?"

"Never have yet."

A quick expression chased itself across his face, too fast for even me to read it.

"Really?"

I shrugged, feeling the edges of strain between us that hadn't been there before.

"Yeah. You know—practical type."

That earned me an odd smile.

"No wonder you stood so still."

I snorted as I pulled off my coat and carefully placed it back on the chair, smoothing the long leather lines affectionately. I really loved that coat.

"I know how—Logan—he—you—" I came to a stop with a sigh. "You know how hard it is to do pronouns with an alternate universe?" That got me a grin and I relaxed a little. "Anyway, let's say this is how I spent my birthday afternoons for many years." I held out my arms. "Unfasten, please?"

Logan watched me for a moment, totally unreadable, before crossing over to me by the chair. For some reason, I'd fallen right back into our normal mode, and the hands pressed against my waist were a sudden shock—different hands, that slid down to pull my shirt free of the belt before his fingers were on the buckle. I felt my breath catch at the brush of hardened fingertips against the bare skin of my stomach, goosebumps breaking out along my arms and back. Sucking in a breath, I concentrated on the hands that slowly peeled the belt back, before he turned me around and his hands on my arms drew the leather down my arms.

I could feel the heat of his body against every nerve in my back, reminding me again that this collar let me _touch_. I could _touch_ him. He could touch me. And in some crazy, obviously damaged part of my brain, I was beginning to think he wanted to, too.

When he leaned forward and dropped the holster beside my jacket, I let out a slow breath and thought about stepping away. I didn't, though.

"Marie."

It was my imagination that I heard something in his voice that matched what I felt moving inside me.

"Are we going back to campus tonight?" It was a physical shock to hear my own cool voice—it could be my Logan I was talking to, not this startlingly different man who had left his fingerprints like brands all over my bare skin. For a moment, there was nothing, then he stepped back—and God, it was like withdrawal, and my back seemed colder without him there.

"No." I heard his footsteps carry him to the kitchen and almost sighed, wanting that touch back so badly I almost followed him, but turned my clumsy hands to fixing my shirt back in place, clenching them tightly for a moment against my chest. "You hungry?"

"Whatcha have in mind?" Crap, he'd probably picked up all those—emotions—in my scent. I'd made him uncomfortable. Double crap. Turning, I decided to be more careful. I couldn't afford to alienate him too.

"Chicken okay?" His voice sounded tight and I bit my lip. God, I could be stupid.

"Fine with me."

* * *

So I was a masochist. Not a huge surprise—I pined after Logan for almost three years of my life and wore long sleeves during summer.

Logan fell asleep in his bed and I took the couch—there was something vaguely cruel, no matter the entire good manners issue, about putting a six foot Logan on the four and a half foot couch and he'd given in to my entreaties, mostly to humor me, I thought. True, the couch wasn't much better for me—I had to draw my knees up pretty far, and in any case, it was a lousy sleep.

On the other hand—well, see, I didn't plan to sleep.

The shopping bags were in a corner of the room and I made my way normally across the room—Logan was attuned enough to my scent and movements that he'd notice any attempt at stealth but would sleep through normal sounds. Pushing open the top one, I found the jeans and pulled out the darkest blue pair, tossing them behind me and pushing the bag closed before opening the next one. I blushed hot at the sight of what had to be a scary number of underwear. Non-simple underwear. Curiously, I picked up a concoction of strings, trying to figure out what it—_oooh_.

Okay, so Logan was right. And I was going to have to _kill_ Kitty. Dear GOD, when had she had time to grab this stuff?

Opening the garment bag, I found one of the plain long sleeve cotton shirts I'd insisted on—black, perfect for my purposes. Slipping out of the t-shirt and school sweats, I dressed quickly, finding my old socks and pulling them on with my boots, then got my gloves. A glance at the chair that held my interesting weaponry stopped me from making straight for the door.

Granted, I was invulnerable. I was Rogue—I kicked ass and took names. Punched through metal. On the other hand—curious, I crossed to the chair and picked up the gun, running it through my fingers for a second. It wasn't such a big thing—I'd been trained with a scary variety of possible guns and assorted items, after all. I knew as well as anyone that being armed was important.

I just wasn't used to doing it outside of missions. And that thought stopped me—the reality was, those people in the mall had carried those things for a reason. They weren't on missions—the way they carried them, the casualness of it, the mindset so it became something acceptable, even required, to arm yourself before shopping—did I _really_ think that everyone else was overreacting?

Paranoia won—I picked up the holster and struggled into it, getting the band below the line of my jeans and letting the folds of my shirt cover the buckle. I tucked the knife into the thigh sheathe and took a good look down at myself.

I felt like I was going to war.

Grabbing my jacket, I pulled it on—evenings in New York were chilly anyway, and sweating was less annoying than looking like I was doing the next sequel to Rambo. Thinking about it, I tucked the image inducer into my pocket along with its case and restraints, then dropped my ID in.

Just to be safe.

I twisted my hair back in a clip Kitty had thoughtfully added to my collection of shopping merchandise (what _was_ she about buying me underwear like that? Damn, she was good with sizes) and then picked up the gun before tucking it into its holster.

I felt utterly ridiculous.

Sneaking out was far easier than sneaking in, especially with Logan's extra key in my pocket. Downstairs, I emerged into the city and gave myself a second to think about what I was going to do. There really _wasn't_ a good reason for it—but something in me wanted to see it.

Turning, I walked to the lot where I'd left Kitty's car a few days before. She hadn't asked for it back yet, after all.

My car's license plate got me past the checkpoint that took me out of New York and I watched the road signs carefully. I didn't think I was up to seeing the camp again, but I knew where the human restricted areas were from the maps. Okay, so I wasn't great with maps—I _did_ know where the area was most likely to be, just from process of elimination.

Crossing the railroad tracks on the west side of town, I came to a deceptively genteel looking checkpoint booth and glanced shortly at the wooden fence that was obviously less than a full year old. Newly erected. Not as branding as chain-link, a little softer, no razorwire or armed men to be found.

Didn't make a difference. Fences were fences.

The grey-clad soldier came down as I came to a stop and I put the car in park. Rolling down the window, I was surprised when he lifted a flashlight, shining it in my face and I blinked away the glare.

"Name?"

"Marie Danvers from the Institute," I answered, hand in my pocket for the ID. Probably should have used the image inducer. I heard something click and took a breath, my eyes adjusting enough to catch a glimpse the second man standing on the other side of the car.

His gun was out but not pointed. Yet. Hmmm.

"I have my ID," I said slowly, and carefully pulled it out where both of them could see me do it. Even more slowly, I handed it through the open window, and he took it, giving it a long, thorough look, before looking at me again.

"Please step out of the car."

He backed off a pace, but his companion didn't move from his position on the other side. Even more slowly, I pushed the door open and got out, letting myself hover briefly before touching down. He didn't relax. Alphas apparently didn't impress him.

"State your business." Wow, he was a pushy little thing.

"I'm looking for John Andrews," I answered, wondering if he would frisk me. Though, thinking about it—I studied the uniform, noting the lack of insignia. Without meaning to, I shot a look at his wrist. Blue numbered and the imperfection of the skin that boasted an identification chip. Human. Question was, were they protecting the humans inside or keeping them inside? This was complex, moreso than I wanted it to be.

"Restricted zone entrance requires the authorization of—"

"I'm here under orders from Logan," I said shortly. If they called him, he'd cover for me. Be pretty fucking pissed, but he'd cover. I trusted him. The man in front of me threw a glance over my shoulder at the other man and my back itched. They couldn't _hurt_ me—but the principle was the same. I couldn't see Guy #2 and it bothered me. "Call him if you need verification."

Another glance at the ID and my patience came to an end. Reaching out, I snatched it back and turned back to the car.

The sound of two cocked guns just pissed me off.

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are?" I yelled, turning. I was a mutant, for God's sake. Mutants were supposed to be top of the evolutionary heap here—and though I hated the thought, I used it. Grabbing the gun, I jerked the man around, getting an arm across his throat and jerking the gun up so it rested on the other man. "Your bullets can't do a damn thing to me. Let me _in_." I jerked him a little closer, keeping my eye on the second guard before lowering my lips near his ear. "Open the fucking gate."

With a single motion, I released him and kept control of the gun. A part of me was utterly appalled—was I actually_ using_ that mutant-superiority crap? Both men gave me long looks, before the second nodded shortly and walked to the checkpoint office. For a second, nothing happened, then the wrought-iron slowly pulled open and I pushed the man in front of me from my path, dropping his gun to the ground.

They might call the school, but I found myself doubting it. What would they say? Mutant girl wanted in and they wouldn't let her? Putting the car back in drive, I pushed the accelerator down and went in, hearing the gate close behind me.

First thing—the roads were atrocious, and less than half a block convinced me that I'd better take it slow. So I looked like I was going to do a drive-by—so the hell what. At this speed, I could do the tourist view.

Three blocks finally made me come to a stop. Tourists, as a rule, looked for pretty things. This place was _not_.

I remembered this part of town okay—mid-income apartment complexes, a few small houses scattered inside. The space, according to the maps, was roughly fifteen or sixteen square miles—considerably smaller than the camp's bulk.

Most of the windows were dark on all the surrounding buildings. This area was in pretty good repair, but the smell again, lightly rotting garbage and sewage, which even a normal human would have picked up; near here, I remembered, there was once an old landfill. Great. No garbage-pick-up, they had to use that thing. Pulling over to the side, I opened the car door and stepped out on the pot-holed asphalt and looked around carefully.

_—What the hell are we doing here, darlin'?—_

I shivered a little. Damn good question.

_—I wanted to see, you know, what it is like.—_

_—Go back and read some World War II literature. This is called a ghetto.—_

Nodding to conceal the trembling of my legs, I looked around carefully, then levered myself from the car and grabbed my keys from inside, locking the doors on the way out. Then hesitated; someone might steal it.

Right. I doubted it. Looking around, there wasn't another car in sight, anywhere—a view of what used to be a parking lot showed nothing but the beginnings of grass growing through the cracks in the asphalt and dirt scattered over it. Turning, I crossed in front of the car and landed on the sidewalk—also cracked and uneven from the shifts of earth beneath that no one had or could repair.

_—I wonder if it was bombed.—_ I didn't remember seeing anything like that in the database, but that didn't mean much. I could have missed that easily. Looking up, I studied the ten story apartment high-rise. No lights in any of the windows—a quick glance around showed the streetlights were out too, and I crossed under one, concentrating to lift myself up to check it out.

No lightbulbs. Hmm.

_—You think they have electricity?—_

Inner Logan growled.

_—Don't test it.—_

Well, I wasn't so curious that I was going to check the socket or anything. Sheesh. Coming down, I stumbled a little on the uneven sidewalk and grabbed the pole to balance myself.

_—Okay, these people are free—sort of. Not encamped, at any rate. But there are camps all over the damn country. What makes the difference between getting wooden fences or chain link?—_

_—War crimes?—_

I snorted.

_—That little girl wasn't old enough to even be born when the war started.—_

Looking around, I took in the general feeling of the place. It felt like the camp, actually. Young John Andrews lived here, after all. Possibly so did all those humans who worked at the School and the mall.

_—You need a workforce, after all Telephones, restaurants, the electric company, food delivery, farming. Someone has to do it.—_

Logan's inner nod was sardonic.

_—Still doesn't explain that camp in New Salem. There's four more camps in New York state and several restricted areas spread all through the state, but the New York camp isn't nearly as big as the Salem one.—_

I shook my head as I walked by the high rise—the windows were blackened on the bottom floor, but the heavy entrance door looked rather normal—used, even. The doorknob was shiny with use and I noticed that the area in front, while still a mass of cracked concrete, was swept painfully clean. I felt vaguely guilty that my boots weren't equally so.

_—You gonna go in there?—_

I looked at the door and shivered a little, shaking my head.

_—Why are we here?—_

I came to a stop as we walked by a small convenience store, Clark's. No clerk was inside and all the windows were barred. Coming closer, I looked at the masking tape keeping the glass together across the front store window and the tape covering several panes in the door.

_—I want to see everything.—_I answered slowly, stepping closer to see inside. I could make out the lines of shelves that looked depressingly sparse in items—canned goods to the back, though my vision wasn't good enough to be sure. Some of the stuff up front—brooms, mops, household items. Not normal fare for the corner store. I could be looking at the ghetto equivalent of the grocery store.

My stomach twisted over the chicken Logan had bought and I forced the nausea away.

_—Why do you want to see this, Marie? What good will it do?—_

I didn't really examine why. I turned in a slow circle.

_—Do you remember World War II?—_ I asked as I looked both ways on the ruined street. Habit was a strong thing, more powerful than chains in the long run. Habit could make you do things you hated every day without a thought of why.

_—Flashes.—_ His inner voice was soft, almost thoughtful. —_What's wrong, Marie?—_

I shook my head and began to cross the street, giving a glance to the row of darkened apartments and stores on the other side.

_—Everything. Nothing. Breathing this air.—_ Coming back up on the sidewalk, I glanced around. It was so damned quiet—even the best neighborhoods had dogs and cats, teens out after dark and being rebellious. The worst neighborhoods had drug dealers and prostitutes on the corner. This was a decent sized city—there should be _something_.

_—Remember when I said it was spooky how close the school was to being EXACTLY the same as before?—_

_—Yeah.—_

_—Okay, look around. Does this spook you?—_

Together, we turned in a slow circle as he watched through my eyes. The broken street stretched well into opaque darkness one direction, and the floodlights of the booth in the other.

_—Yeah.—_

_—This is change. Negative change, but it's change. You see the difference? The X-Men are still pretending that they're the X-Men. They rebuilt the school in Xavier's image. But they remodeled the world into a mirror image of what Xavier wanted. Mirror. Opposite.—_

Bingo. I felt my gun butt against my ribs and drew in a long breath, letting it out slowly.

_—I don't....—_

_—They don't see the difference. That's the problem—they don't see that they've changed, they're not accepting that they have changed. Carol said the only difference between right and wrong was the power involved. That's not necessarily true, but it's more true here than anywhere. They have the power, and you know, I don't think they see this at all. They didn't walk out on Xavier's dream, or they never would have rebuilt the school like they did. They—I think they think this is what it IS. The letter, not the spirit, of the dream. They think this IS the reality of the dream. That this is the interpretation, the only one. The right one.—_

Logan inside me grew silent as we looked at the buildings surrounding us.

_—You'd never know people live here.—_ Except that vague stirring of life just beneath the surface you feel anywhere there are people. A city has more of it than anyplace else. Jean had told me it was a form of psychic residue—she most especially could sense the multitudes that could surround you in a quiet town, but anyone can feel it. I could feel it here—people crushed inside these buildings, alive and living, and I'd bet money that they knew I was out here already.

_—Logan....—_

To my shock, there was the sound of a car behind me and I turned on my heel, hands going to my pocket to feel the keys still inside, but it was another car, coming from the opposite direction, careening madly over the truly terrible roads. They were seriously ruining their shocks. Two teens hung out the side windows.

Well, I'd been wondering where the juvenile delinquents were.

"Hey, bitch!"

I blinked, almost tripping, as the car slowed down and one blonde head lifted, revealing slightly elongated, slit-pupil eyes. Mutant. Not human. All chilling. Staring, I watched them come to a crawl, then stop in front of me. My instincts took over, stumbling me back one step, then another, and the uneven sidewalk let the inevitable occur, tipping me backward.

Shit, I _had_ to practice auto-hovering more.

"Hey pretty norm, whatcha doin' out this late?" The car door opened and slammed shut and I tried to shake off the shock of the fall, rubbing my back absently. He was really close, but—

"Let's party, baby." A hand buried itself in my hair and jerked me forward, knocking me off my center of balance....

_{...and dragged out of the cell, down the hallway, hearing Logan yelling something behind me before the door shut behind me.}_

_{"So they call you Shadowcat?" he asked and I tried to get my feet under me but he jerked me off balance and, God, it hurt, it hurt, his fist against my scalp, felt like it was on fire....}_

"Come on, baby, whatcha afraid of? It'll be good if you let it."

"Let me...."

_{"...go, please, don't, don't." He jerked harder and then I was against the wall, my feet dangling when he pushed a leg between my thighs—under the hospital coverall I was bare and vulnerable and it hurt so much. Grinding against me and a sloppy wet kiss on my neck above the collar. My hands were still bound behind me and he pushed me flat so I screamed, it hurt, God, my wrist wasn't finished mending from the break....}_

"Don't do this. Please don't...."

_{"...please, it hurts." Not enough time, just another way to humiliate us, in the middle of the bright white hall where anyone could see and who the hell would care anyway? If I struggled, he'd hurt me, but I couldn't—I couldn't...}_

"Let me GO!"

_{Against the hall wall, he was laughing and unfastening his slacks, he would—he would—but my arms were pinned and I struggled against him, screamed when he jerked my head back against the tile, felt him push between my legs—}_

"NO!"

I jerked, arms free, hitting him hard enough to break his jaw, but he moved away too fast for the full force to get him, landing feet away in a fighter's crouch. The hallway was dark and I didn't know where the rest of them were, but I didn't care, I didn't care, I'd kill them all if I could, just don't touch me, don't touch me, _don't touch me...._.

The hallway was dark because it was a sidewalk in Salem and I looked at the three boys now several feet away.

Kitty's hate washed through me and I took a step toward them before I caught myself with a hand on the rough brick of the building as my legs began to shake. I heard their feet come closer and drew my gun, pointing it straight at them, clicking the safety off with a flick of my thumb.

God, Kitty. Oh Kitty, I'm so sorry...

"I'm sorry," the boy said slowly. He was straightening and his three friends were slowly backing away. "Look, I thought—"

"I was human?" I whispered. Keeping an eye on them, I pressed a knee into the sidewalk and shakily got my footing, hand against the wall to balance myself. "Just a stupid human? How the _hell_ did you get in here?"

"They let us through," he answered, shaking his blonde hair back. "Just say you're from Lensherr and they let you through. You know that."

So that's what they were there for. Keep the humans in. That's why that guy didn't want to let me in—because I'd see these boys here. I felt Kitty move inside me—they _touched_ me and they tried to—tried to—

_—I want them dead.—_

That scared me most of all. Slowly, I forced my thumb back to the safety and clicked it on.

"Get back to the school."

They didn't move for a second and I took two steps forward, grabbing the blond by the front of the shirt with one hand and jerking him into the air. He let out a shocked screech and I wished I'd grabbed his throat.

"Who the hell are you?" he choked as his friends tried to circle. With a quick movement, I had my back close to the wall and lifted him higher, twisting the cloth in my hand closer to his windpipe.

"Marie Danvers," I said softly, and a flicker went through his eyes. "You know Logan, right?"

There. So Logan was right, everyone was assuming some things. And this was _good_. I took a breath—it was tempting to let him twist a little longer, but his shirt was tearing under the pressure. Damn.

I threw him back to his friends and waited as he scrambled to his feet, staring at me warily.

"You don't come in here again," I said, carefully enunciating each word. "Got it?"

They didn't answer and I took another step, letting my feet leave the ground. Good, good.

"Danvers," he said slowly. My hair was brown right now, but the white streak was twisted under so no one could see. I wondered what would happen if they reported back to the school. And I realized I didn't care. "New girl."

"Give the boy a prize." I waited as all three took a good look. It was dark out—chances were, I could play off as trick of the dark. "Get out. You don't come back here. Ever. For any reason."

The blonde smirked a little.

"Who do you think you are to give us orders?"

I tilted my head. God, was I that stupid when I was their age? I'd bet the blond for a superhealer—he didn't look scared of the gun. I wondered if he was aware of the many, many weaknesses of being one—you couldn't die easily, no, but you could hurt them _a lot_ if you hit the right places.

Logan in my head was telling me where to aim. My thumb twitched on the safety.

"The one with the gun and the feral lover who runs school security. Want me to tell him what you tried to pull tonight?" A pause for a second. "I don't have to be honest, kiddo. Get your ass out of here."

They were cocky, young—they'd been top of the heap for two years, but I'd outbutched Bad Guys bigger and stronger and a hell of a lot scarier than them, and I could back up my threat. We waited as they processed my meaning. They were cocky, young—but not completely stupid. Not yet. Give them two more years, though, and they would be.

Give them two more years, and they might not realize that my thumb wanted to be on the safety so badly I could taste it.

"Sugar, I could rip out your throat while you're sleeping. Don't fuck with me. Now get the hell outta here." Deliberately, I reholstered the gun and turned my back on them—they weren't obviously armed, and I just didn't think they'd take the chance. Two steps and I heard them make for their car like their tails were on fire, and then the car was moving, going down the street. I heard a gunshot, but kept my back still. Probably showing off their manliness or some crap like that. I tossed a glance after another second and watched them slow at the checkpoint before proceeding through without undue difficulty.

Anger was a gorgeous thing. It wiped out everything else—fear, nervousness, blinding terror, nausea, horror. That stuff... The stuff that made my knees weak as they passed out of view and I leaned back against the stone wall to take a breath against it.

They were going to—were going to—

_—They didn't.—_

They didn't need to. I shut my eyes tight, bracing a hand on my legs as Kitty's memories filled my mind, as if they'd happened not four years ago, but four minutes ago. They didn't need to, because it'd been done. A phantom ache on a wrist that had been broken and badly set, a tearing heat between my legs and the grind of teeth into my skin. The blank knowledge that this wasn't the first time, or the second time, or the last time.

That they could do this to me any damn time they wanted.

My knees gave out and I got onto all fours somehow, vomiting onto the sidewalk, eyes shut tight so I didn't have to watch, tears burning behind my closed eyelids. The smell was sickly-sweet, bitter, the memory of curry powder floating on my tongue enough to bring up more, and I choked as the heaves shook my body.

_—Marie, baby...— _The mental touch filled my mind, blotting out the blank despair and fear, washing through me with warmth. Spitting out the taste, I lifted my head slowly and knelt back on my heels, letting Logan wash through me, almost like a physical touch, warm and comforting and all love and support. Everything he'd always been to me.

I felt him before I saw him, and looked up to see the other version standing only a foot away, watching me from behind cool, unreadable eyes. I'd never in my life wanted to see Logan less.

"Your car lost a tire, baby. Wanna explain what the fuck you're doing here?"

* * *

"You're a part of this. All of this. Camps, ghettos, the Polaris Project—this is your life, isn't it? What you believe." It was sinking in, hard and fast and deadly, like a stone to the bottom of my soul. This was real. Logan, my Logan—no, no, _this_ Logan, this Scott, this Jean—this was their world.

I had been against a rough brick wall with a mutant boy pushing my legs apart because he'd thought I was human and this was what happened to humans. This was what humans were _treated_ like. This was what happened to a human girl walking down the sidewalk in the ghetto. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. They made it into policy.

Logan didn't say anything, even as he opened the apartment door and let me in. He'd said a lot in the car. I didn't hear a word. I was with Kitty and with the human girl I could have been. If I'd—dear GOD....

He tossed his jacket on the chair by the door and gave me a long, patient look.

"Marie—"

I shut my eyes, stripping jacket and weaponry and tossing them on the chair, hands shaking. They felt filthy. I'd wanted to use them. Gun and knife. Shoot the little superhealing bastard through the head and gut him. Watch him heal so I could do it again.

"Why?" I whispered.

"Because Mags is right—we can't afford another war. Our species can't afford another war. Make it simple, baby—we're dead if it happens again, if they have something we haven't found yet. The Legacy Virus may be their version of a mutant cold compared to the crap they still might have buried out there and I sure as hell ain't pretending that in two and a half years we found it all. No where close."

"Hold the war criminals instead. That's natural, that follows Geneva Convention rules—"

"Yeah, because they've been oh-so-fucking-strict about following those themselves."

Shit, I was so fucking sick of hearing that justification, which wasn't a justification at all. It was cheap and easy and meant absolutely nothing. Taking a breath, I tried to steady myself.

"So you lower yourself to their level? What they did was wrong, Logan, but that doesn't make what you're doing right by default." Nothing could justify what had just happened—nothing.

Logan went into the kitchen—I wasn't sure what that meant, whether or not the argument was over or he was just getting a beer. Ah, beer, two in fact, dropping one in my lap and facing me from the other side of the coffee table—a truly ugly coffee table at that. Logan never had what I would call good taste in furnishings.

"Who says we give a fuck about right?"

I took a drink of my beer because there wasn't much of an argument to give to that one, feeling it slide into the empty cavern of my stomach. I felt rather than saw him drop neatly into a nearby chair, already hunting out a cigar like it was any other night in his life.

"What happened tonight? Who shot the tire of the car and why were you getting sick out there?"

I shook my head. A part of me wanted to tell him, so badly—but the rest of me needed an illusion. After all this reality, after that brick wall, after the taste of my own vomit, I needed this. Logan couldn't know what those kids were doing out there. He couldn't know that was going on. He couldn't—he couldn't believe....

I covered my mouth with my hands, then took a quick sip of the beer. It seemed to help.

"Don't you see those camps, those little kids trapped inside, and get sick?" I asked finally, feeling the light burn of the beer in my empty stomach, fixing my gaze on the worn edge of the table and what looked like the marks of his claws. I shouldn't drink or I'd be back at the toilet pronto. "Don't you—didn't you see them?"

"I put most of them there." A pause for the longest second of my life; time stopped. Logan was doing this. Reality, concrete, fact, Logan was putting people, putting children, in that damn camp for this. "Marie, if you're gonna try an abstract moral argument—"

"Then how about a concrete?" I snapped. "How many mutant sympathizers are in those camps? How many people who helped and supported mutantkind are locked up for being human? Those—those ghettos, that humans have to live in—how many of them were among the ones that helped you out?"

"How many mutants died before they woke up and realized that old-fashioned racism maybe wasn't the way to go when it was _their_ kids being rounded up for the testing and some never came back?" Logan snorted. "They didn't do it for us—they didn't stop it when it could be stopped. They passed the MRA and approved the restrictions, they watched us hunted and didn't give a shit. They waited until we were dying before they did a fucking thing."

I didn't know how to answer that—I just didn't. Didn't mean I wasn't going to try.

"So their support was worth less because they changed over when they found out they had kids that were mutants?"

"It wasn't worth much to begin with, baby. So they slipped us food and medicines every once in awhile, when they could be bothered. They had cute little protests outside Congress and they wore nice buttons saying 'Free the Mutants'. They didn't have a problem when we were rounded up and I didn't see them storming the camps to get us out. Even when their own kids were there. We did it on our own." Another pause, while he lit his cigar. "It's not black and white and you're trying to make it that way."

"It _is_ black and white, Logan. Those kids never did anything to anyone—and Salem Complex is going to be flooded with the power of that machine that will _kill_ them, because you know and I know Magneto's machine will never work. And if it did work—tell me that I'm wrong. Tell me that Magneto is going to let all the humans go after we have the numbers." I drew in a sharp breath, letting it out slowly. "Tell me that's going to happen. Or is this everything there's gonna be? _This_ is the future you wanted when you went to war?"

Logan was silent. No response, and I drew in a breath sharply. A soft sigh, before he turned his head to look up at me, and there was a trace of exhaustion in his eyes that cut me to the heart. The alcohol in my stomach seemed to congeal into lead and a faint nausea swam up into my throat, sweet-bitter on the back of my tongue. I was going to be sick again.

"That's—that's what's going to happen, isn't it? Here, everywhere you can get power, this place, this society, is what you're willing to fight and die for." It was too big to comprehend—just numbness.

"Lensherr hasn't talked about it much, but yeah, that's what we think he has in mind." Logan took a pull of the beer—now he _was_ uncomfortable, not quite meeting my eyes.

"'We'?"

"Scott, Jean, 'Ro." Another drink of the beer, a little more desperate. "A few others we've talked to. We're not stupid, Marie. And Lensherr's not being subtle in how he's setting this up."

"But you're okay with this." I jumped to my feet, almost dropping my beer, and hit my head with the heel of my hand. "Oh, look who I'm asking! Of _course_ you're okay with this! You're Logan, war hero, saved thousands, right? You've _suffered_ for being mutant, so you sure as hell can be objective about this. All those nasty humans—they don't deserve to live, do they? All those little kids who never did a thing against us—well, fuck them for being stupid enough to be born." I could hear the acid drip from my voice, wished I could stand to look at him—not that I'd see anything there, this was Logan. Raising my beer, I spun to face him. "Here's to this brave new world, sugar. You and the X-Men are going to do what every major tyrant throughout history could only hope to accomplish. Your very own slave force on a worldwide scale. Kill them when they get in the way, lock 'em up otherwise. Practical genocide. Kudos to you, sugar."

Another drink, before I turned away, stumbling to look out the window on a dead city, the nausea in my stomach enough to want to send me running for the bathroom. Curiously, Logan was silent.

"How can you stand to look at yourself in the mirror?" I whispered, wrapping an arm around myself. "D-Do you know that after I killed Carol, I couldn't stand to see myself? Every time I looked into these eyes, I saw the permanent mark of what I was—my whole mutation meant death. And I hated it—I hated myself, for killing her, for being alive and perfectly well. I took her life, I took her powers, and I took her soul. Everything she was or would ever be, I did it, and somehow, it was worse than just killing her. I benefited from her death, and that still makes me sick."

I'd held her head in my hands, the fourth time I'd touched bare skin with my own since I manifested, knowing that there was no other way—she'd been too strong, too fast, too impervious to everything we could do against her. Scott had been down and Jean and 'Ro, unconscious, maybe dead on the field, the team scattered—all that had been left was me. Alone. She didn't know what I was, the rogue power among the team, and I'd peeled off my gloves and let her attack me, grabbed her face in my fingers and drew her body close to me, rolled her on her back and listened to her scream in my ears and in my mind.

Death was always personal for me.

"I knew—I knew she was trying to kill me, that it was her or me. When I go on missions, I'm always aware that there's a good chance I'll be forced to do it again, that I'll have to deal with ripping apart another person from the inside out. When they send me in to take out the FoH, when I work against Sentinels, when I—" I stopped, drawing in a deep breath, trying to clear my head, remove the images of Carol beneath my body. "When I wear the uniform, though, Marie doesn't exist. I'm just Rogue, an X-Man, and I'm also Rogue, who knows that I'll get dirty doing it. But I never—I _never_ look in the mirror and not balance what I'm doing against what's right. Not what the FoH thinks is right, not what's been done to me or my friends—just what's _right_, and it _is_ black and white. And I never stop asking myself, every time, if there was a better way, and I never stop looking for a better way. I never stop making sure that what they are, the FoH, the Brotherhood, all of them, is what I don't become. It's a choice I make every day."

"You make it sound simple." His voice was low.

"It _is_ simple." I remembered how Carol's skin had felt—smooth, soft, silky beneath the tips of my fingers. Her hair brushing my face. The way she felt in my mind, alien and heavy and terrifying. "I wish I hadn't died here, if this is what happened because of it. But—but if I hadn't, and this had come about anyway—I would have died in the camps before letting myself become them. That's a choice too. You went through a lot, all of you did—but you _chose_ to wake up one day and say that the FoH was right, that we are exactly what they thought we were. You _chose_ to become them—you might as well have taken over their headquarters and changed the name to FoM or something. There's no difference in the methodology or the intent. The only difference is that you're mutant and they aren't; you took their creed for your own, their prejudices for your own, and you let them win by becoming them." My throat began to close over. "Congratulations, sugar," I choked, knowing I was going to be sick, knowing I couldn't let it happen. Not in front of him. "I'm so proud."

I could feel myself begin to shake—I'd argued against FoH members before, and there was no way to get through blind, unrelenting prejudice. There just wasn't. It had to come internally, it had to be something inside their heads that clicked over, because nothing outside themselves, nothing they saw or heard, would make them understand. Nothing. I was doing it again, though—just like stupid, idealistic Marie, who still got sick before missions and who still cried through sappy movies and who still believed with all her heart and soul in Xavier's dream.

God, I was glad I was dead here, glad that Xavier didn't live to see what his dream had become.

"What do you want?" His voice was quiet, and it hurt me to hear it. "Spell it out."

"Let them go. Take the war criminals, bring them up for international trial for their crimes. Burn the camps and salt the earth where they used to stand. Open your fucking eyes and look at yourself for five seconds and tell me what you see when you look in the mirror. And instead of saying this is the only way, look for another. Real simple, sugar."

"And if they come after us again?"

I turned to stare out the window.

"Make sure when you rebuild, you do it right. Work from the ground up, work to make it so they don't _want_ to. You have—a post-war society is more flexible than anything. Humans—you think they _want_ another war? Those sympathizers you mock—they realized they were wrong, and don't tell me they didn't help you during the war effort. Humans saw what mutantkind was capable of when pushed—you went to war and you won. But you're still at war—it never ended. You, Scott, Jean, 'Ro, Bobby, all of you. You're at war still, in your minds. You haven't moved on and said, 'it's over', because its not. You're fighting people who can't fight back." I paused, looking at the remains of Manhattan outside the window, wondering about the abandoned houses, the lost lives, and those people in the camps, the ghettos, the streets. "You've never been the nicest guy in the world, sugar. But what you're doing now—all of you—it's beneath you. You're shooting fish in a barrel."

There was silence for a long time, then I heard him stand up.

"Go to bed, Marie."

Nothing got through, and it didn't surprise me at all. I finished off the beer, passing him to drop the bottle on the coffee table, before slowly approaching the bedroom door. I didn't want to sleep in there tonight—but I just didn't have the strength for another fight.

"Nice dreams, sugar."

* * *

Bobby was waiting for me by the Danger Room door when I came down the elevator the next morning—Logan had cleared my presence in the lower levels with Scott. I hadn't known, however, that _Bobby_ was at all aware of that, and came to a confused halt.

He looked slightly grim, and I almost dropped my bag before recovering. I didn't need this. I seriously did _not_ need to relive the Jealous Bobby Years now. One, I'd done it before, it hadn't been fun, and I'd managed to come out the worst of it. Two, I wasn't seventeen or eighteen—I was twenty-three and had been screwed over before, so my sympathy for his position was pretty much shot.

And three, this was _not_ my world, we had _never_ been in a relationship, so he had absolutely no right to look at me with that peculiar cross between hurt and angry that reminded me of a recently kicked puppy in need of some serious doggie-treats to make up for it. Sorry, babe, I ain't your doggie treat.

"Hey," I said, surreptitiously making sure my skin was covered enough beneath the sweats I'd grabbed, wishing for about the millionth time in my life that there was a way to flip my skin issue off.

"Hey." Still grim. "I'll be your supervisor for the run." Nothing else—he pressed his codes into the door and walked in, giving some vocal commands for lights, and making his way across the room to a far door and what looked like a darkish mirror—ah, one way glass, for observation, I remembered. Probably to make sure I didn't get myself killed. Hehehe. Fun by five. "I'll start you on level one. Be ready in five minutes."

Well, then. Be a baby. I stripped the sweats so I was in the tights and leotard I'd picked up from the locker room's stores—I'd trained in minimal clothes and in full coverage and since I was alone for this, I could certainly strip as far down as I wanted. I checked the flexibility of the spandex and decided against the overpiece so my arms were bare. Legs covered completely. I smiled a little when the lights flashed and I kicked everything to the corner, preparing for a little serious aggression therapy. Shit knew, I needed it.

Then the animatronics began and I flipped my mind into here-and-now, forgetting everything else.

Two and a half hours later, Bobby turned it off and seriously pissed me off.

_—I'm thinking he doesn't know you very well.— _Carol offered it with amusement. —_And honey, you've never had a session this long outside your post-break-up therapy runs. They don't train to save the world anymore—they train to destroy what's left.—_

"What the hell are you doing?" I yelled at the glass. Nothing. Crap. Going to my bag, I got my water, looking a little vaguely around the room before finding my towel and wiping my face. After a few minutes, Bobby emerged, looking more than a little shell-shocked and not quite on-keel. I tended to have that effect on men when they realize I could kick their asses even on an off-day. Funness. The next figure, however, wiped the smirk off my face—Logan shut the door and leaned back against it, head slightly tilted to watch me as I slowly began to cross the room, stopping myself in the center.

"Wow," Bobby said, and there was definite awe in his voice. Logan gave the room a once-over, before the hazel eyes fixed on me again.

"Nice job. Glad Scott told me that you were playin' here today—I can do your hand-to-hand evaluation." Bobby gave him a sideways glance that spoke volumes—this was supposed to be Bobby-Rogue time, where he could possibly, from the expression on his face, warn me off Logan again. It was almost enough to make me sigh in frustration at men and their powerful need to tell me what was best for me. That got really old _really_ fast, and it had taken many moons to get Logan to stop growling at my dates as a test of their masculinity or something.

Though to be honest, I'd noticed my most successful dates tended to be with those that didn't pass out when they met him. Curious, that.

"You wanna go, old man?" I asked, tilting my head in challenge. "Anytime, anyplace."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face.

"Soon, darlin'. Real soon." Bobby looked a little confused now, which matched pretty well with how I was feeling at the moment, and then Logan nodded shortly at Bobby. "Have something to do, doncha?"

A hot flush spread along Bobby's face and the temperature of the room seemed to take a slight dive that I didn't like at all. He'd never been the most stable in the use of his powers, which might have had something to do with his emotional equilibrium—or lack thereof. With a glance at Logan, he turned to me.

"If you need anything, you know where I'll be."

I began to wonder if I'd stumbled into the Classic Movie A/U. All I needed was him to chuck me under the chin and call me kid. Nodding, hoping my irritation didn't show, I went back to my bag and picked up my sweats, listening to the sound of his footsteps crossing the room and going out the door.

After a few minutes, I turned back around to see Logan hadn't moved a muscle.

"Still pissed?" he asked conversationally.

"Nah, I get over moral issues pretty damn easy. Gimme another hour and maybe I'll even get supportive, 'kay?"

To my surprise, he didn't do anything but nod, and I didn't like that at all. Slamming down my water, I turned to look at him.

"Did you think I'd like this? Or just given enough time, I'll agree?"

Logan paused briefly, before he straightened, pacing across the room. Absently, he picked up my sweatshirt from where I'd kicked it earlier, folding it neatly. That military training thing, didn't like a mess.

"No."

"I have the memories, Logan." His head came up in surprise. "I know what happened—I know it from—a person I touched. I—I know that isn't the same thing as experiencing it, not really. But—you can't convince me what you're doing is right."

"I never said it was right." Dropping the sweatshirt neatly on my pants, he leaned against the wall beside my bag and gave me an intense stare that made me seriously wonder what was going through his head. "It said it was survival."

"This isn't survival."

"What if it's the only way?" He wasn't hostile, wasn't mocking—in point of fact, I realized I couldn't read him at all, and that was beginning to bother me a little. I couldn't tell where this was going.

"Then find another." I sighed, crouching to fish my water back out—I was still slightly dehydrated from that much physical activity that fast. "And don't tell me this isn't retaliation, Logan—that's what it is, whether you and Scott and the others can admit it or not. You're not choosing the best solution—you're choosing the one that gives you some serious satisfaction, to hurt them like they hurt you."

"Won't deny that."

"And you're all better than that. You're above that. Morals don't only apply when you feel like applying them or when they're easy to follow—they're not there for that. It's easy to be just to someone who's never hurt you. It's harder to do it when they've damaged you, and that's when you're _supposed_ to use your morals." I rubbed my forehead, taking a drink of water. "I've preached to FoH and Brotherhood and I gave up doing that a long time ago, because it was so pointless. Why am I arguing this now?"

"Because you look at us and see your family and friends, and it hurts you to see us as less than what you want us to be."

I jerked, almost spitting out my water and the hazel eyes met mine knowingly before he dropped into an easy crouch, watching me absorb what he said. It was too true, too close to the bone.

It was also something else entirely.

_—Wait for it.—_ Carol whispered into my mind.

Logan once told me that assumptions were the single most deadly mistake I could ever make, in general and as an X-Man. Never assume you understand everything—always ask, always check, always double check, always be _sure_. Considering his line of work, I could understand his feelings on the subject and tried to act accordingly. Observe the enemy, watch the enemy, but never assume anything that you couldn't verify.

I'd assumed a lot coming into this—assumed that I could hide who I was indefinitely—assumed that I knew the X-Men well enough to be shocked by their behavior—assumed that I understood motivations. Assuming I knew Logan inside and out yet dismissing all my instincts, instead telling myself that my Logan and this Logan were too different for me to interpret. I couldn't have it both ways—either I knew him or I didn't. And I'd assumed I didn't but played it like I did.

Holding Logan's eyes, I was proved utterly wrong in every assumption I'd made, starting with my first hour in this world.

"My God," I whispered, feeling it click in my head. "You hate it too."

He didn't want me to see that. He was on his feet, stepping back, but I didn't let him run, not this time. Moving faster, I put my body between him and the door and after what he saw me do in the simulations, he had to know that I could probably hold him a good time before his greater skill overcame me. I didn't even try to fool myself that I could beat this Logan if he seriously wanted to get out.

Damned if I wouldn't try, though.

"I don't wanna—"

"Fuck you." I watched his eyes mark my position, working out a way around me. "Shit, I'm preaching to the converted, aren't I? You know—you have to know. Don't—don't lie to me, Logan. It's all over you." How'd I miss it? How in the name of _God_ could I miss something this obvious? He didn't believe a word of the arguments he'd used against me, never believed them. He'd never try to justify himself if he did believe. That wasn't Logan. "You've never been a believer. What the fuck are you trying to do?"

"Survival." Clipped short, he didn't want to explain. Too fucking bad.

"Survival?" Was it worse, that he _knew_ this was wrong and doing it anyway? I held in the comments—here it was, my job. No more assumptions, no more tricks, no more dancing around the issue. I was going to sit down and listen, and more, I wasn't going to let him go until I understood what the hell was going on here. "All right. I'm listening this time—tell me what you're doing." He'd never been a believer in his life—I should have remembered that too. But those camps—they'd changed everyone. They'd changed—God, I was stupid. So stupid, so obvious. "It's all of you, isn't it? You, Scooter, Jeannie—"

He, Scott, Jean. Magneto's supporters. They'd fought a war and survived it, but I didn't see, didn't understand, not completely, even with Kitty in my head.

He sigh, and I knew the sound of it, because I knew _him_, at least a little, and that was something. "Marie—"

"Tell me." I pointed to the concrete floor, then dropped down to sit, fixing my full attention on him. "Tell me what I'm missing here. You're playing me and there's no reason to. Why?"

"There's reason." A growl, before he finally did what I wanted, and I caught my breath a little at the stretch of all those muscles and that body... No, down girl. Down now. "We don't have a choice."

"What choice?"

"I was with the original containment policy—we needed it. I was behind it and I helped Scott organize it. Scott had reintegration planned before the war ended, but we had to buy the time we needed to find the weaponry." I shivered at the thought of the things I'd seen in the computer, Kitty's memories of the testing in the labs. "We figured a year, tops—we had telepaths working on it 'round the clock, not always ethical, maybe, but we wanted to move fast." He paused for a second, eyes meeting mine again before twisting away, focusing on the wall behind me.

"We worked with Magneto because he ran Genosha and at the time it was the only safe-haven for mutants—every kid we found who carried the gene went there automatically. That place was so fortified even the strongest of the anti-mutant groups were scared to show their faces anywhere within a hundred miles. We didn't—we couldn't afford to slow down, and it wasn't until Magneto came back that we realized our mistake—he'd been indoctrinating his own army, all those kids we sent and most of the survivors we got out. He came in, and he and Mystique took over with the miraculous resurrection of Senator Kelley—quite a fucking trick to pull, lemme tell you." The grim humor wasn't reflected on Logan's face—more than resigned bitterness, more than simple anger.

"So you—what, went along with it?" I tried to imagine Scott doing that and just couldn't. Not at all. Of course, before, I could never have imagined Logan working with Erik Lensherr on anything at all, so again, assumptions. I couldn't afford them.

"At first—we found some of the crap they were workin' on, that they tested on us. Crap we still have stored up in Genosha because we have no fucking clue what to do with it. It wasn't—it wasn't easy to sit back and follow Scott's plan after that shit came to light. So Magneto's plan for containment didn't seem too extreme—a year of restriction, then we lift the ban and start rebuilding. But we kept finding crap and Magneto started making it an institution—and we went along because we agreed in the first place."

I shook my head slowly, only partially understanding.

"But—"

"There wasn't a but, baby. Erik was there when Xavier died and I think he assumed—and he was right—that if he moved while we were all still raw from what happened to us and to the others, that he could get his programs in place."

I tried to absorb what he was telling me—and what he wasn't. It was dizzying, so much information so fast.

"But you support this project," I said slowly. "You said it yourself, you're helping round up—"

"We never thought he'd get that machine workin' again—all a big exercise in futility. And even if he got the fucking thing to work, he didn't have anyone to put in it. No absorbers, and he sure as shit wouldn't go in it, even if Mystique and some of the others woulda let him. Then Polaris appeared outta nowhere. So we're at a stand-off now—we're still bringing them in and Jeannie started working on the equations so at very least the casualty rate was lower—younger they were, the more likely they were to survive the change. But Magneto built that fucking machine and he can't figure out how to drop the death rate and Hank refuses to have shit to do with it, so it's lose-lose."

"Unless you get Polaris out."

Logan snorted.

"She wants to be like Rogue." I winced at the reminder. "You're a demi-god, baby. Little mutant girls grow up now being told the story of how Rogue died for mutantkind. Polaris volunteered before we even knew she existed. And there aren't enough of us to stop it."

I had no idea how to argue against that.

"All of you, though—"

"Not all of us. Scott, Jeannie, me, 'Ro. That's all we have."

That was more than I'd thought only five minutes before.

"I was wrong. About you." Amazingly wrong. Breathtakingly wrong.

"Nope." Logan leaned his weight back on one arm, fixing me with that intent stare, trying to drive out whatever small amount of sheer relief I'd obtained. "You've had time to check out the databases—it's all true. I won't lie about what I've done, Marie. There's been plenty and most of it wasn't pretty. And I won't pretend I'm sorry for most of it. The containment camps we set up for post-war—we did what we had to do to survive."

True, all true. I stared down at my feet and tried to think through it.

"I-I understand," I breathed, lifting my head to look at him. And he looked no different than he had before, nothing had changed except everything. I did understand, more than I'd expected, and something in me turned over with his slight smile, before he stood up, offering me a warm hand.

"Polaris," I said suddenly, and his head tilted as he studied me.

"What?"

"We have to stop Magneto," I said steadily, caught the surprise written across his face. Before he could answer, I shifted to my feet and looked him straight in the eyes. "We can't let this happen, not again. No more legends, Logan. No more lies. There won't be another Rogue."

* * *

The computer lab was a much safer place to do my hack-work, and with Logan beside me feeding the correct codes, it made it easier to find the information on Polaris.

Scott appeared, as if by magic, while Logan and I were in the computer lab. He figured it out first, of course, casually leaning over my shoulder and with a few taps of the keys changing the page. My heightened sense of smell had faded somewhat, so I looked up, ready to growl a warning, when I saw Logan casually turn around and lean back into the desk, arms crossed, classic Scott-is-here pose. It was utterly ruined as a sign of hostility by the smile I could see trying to fight its way across his face.

"Still tryin' to sneak up, Cyke?"

It startled me, the general comfort level between them—if there was one thing to be counted on, always, it had been the hostility between the two resident alpha males. Hostility with edges of general respect, granted, but this was different.

"Now what makes you think I was sneaking?" A curious tilt of his head—sun-lightened hair fell in casual disarray over his forehead and I could see grease stains on his jeans and a smear of it across the heel of one hand. Different type, though—I breathed in as unobtrusively as I could and picked up the difference. He'd been working on the jet, and there were few things that could drag Scott from his favorite toy during routine maintenance. I debated turning my chair around and decided against it, keeping a view of both from the corner of my eye without intruding on their discussion. "Hey, Marie."

I managed a quick glance and nod, feeling the red gaze fix on me briefly, consideringly. I should have asked Logan what he'd told Scott—well, probably nothing. Assumptions were working in my favor, at least in public opinion.

"If you were, that was a piss-poor way to do it. Whatcha need?'

"Get rid of the pleasantries, right?" Scott shook his head shortly and leaned back into the desk behind him "Turns out the FoH cell we cleaned out three days ago wasn't as clean as we thought."

"We should have bombed it." I stiffened at the casual tone of his voice. "What happened? Someone cannibalize what we left?"

"Someone cleaned it out pretty thoroughly—Piotr said it was stripped bare, not even a wire left. Computers were gone—we have most of the information from it, but Kitty's still analyzing the encryption codes." A low snort. "What she's found is that this cell may be affiliated overseas—possibly with quasi-government support."

"Germany, right?" Logan bared his teeth in something that I was sure wasn't anything close to a smile. "You'd think they learned not to interfere. You sent the report to Lensherr?"

"He left yesterday to discuss it with Kelley."

"Official or non-official action?"

Scott grinned then. It was strangely boyish, made him look barely eighteen and getting his driver's license. I blinked to dispel the illusion, focusing back on the screen, trying to pretend the geographic information was just fascinating.

"Non-official. Want to go?"

"Stupid question. When do we leave?"

"Forty minutes. You, me, Ororo only. Jean will keep contact from here. Be in the war room and I'll tell you the plan." The grin widened. "It'll be fun, Logan."

Fun.

"Gotcha." A glance down at me. "Baby—"

"I better run and see if St. John's still on campus." Gonna avoid Bobby for all I'm worth too.

"You walked perimeter sweeps with him last time, Marie?" Scott's voice was coolly interested and I froze for a moment, thinking. Watch-the-suspicious-new-mutant-Marie time again. I turned fully in my chair, nodding warily.

"Yes."

"Good." A short nod. "I'll tell him to show you how we do it from the ground up. He's getting briefed by Jean—he'll meet you in foyer." He gave me a casual nod of dismissal and I began to rise automatically, before Logan's hand on my shoulder stopped me.

"I'll find you when I get back." I looked up into the hazel eyes, finding only warmth and a little worry behind them. Swallowing my nervousness, I pasted on a smile to reassure him. "Don't worry."

"All right." I gave Scott a short nod, then went quickly toward the door. I could feel Scott's gaze on me, though his head never moved—damn visor—and as the door shut behind me, I walked fifteen steps and around the corner, knowing Logan would hear that, then dropped quietly to the floor and crawled back to the corner.

The recent touch with Logan hadn't been enough to recharge my senses, but it was enough to slow the rate of dispersion, so with concentration, I could just manage to hear both voices with relative ease. Please God, let no one come up this hall wondering what the hell I was doing crouching there.

"If I tell you something, what are the chances you'll slam me into the wall?" Scott's voice was light, almost bantering, but there was an odd note under it all that I couldn't quite define.

Silence for a moment.

"Depends on the question, One-Eye."

"I don't trust her."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Not a surprise, but still, shit.

"Jeannie couldn't get in her mind?" Slightest mocking edge—that was interesting. But still not unfriendly—Logan in my world would have lost his temper completely by now.

"Hear me out—you owe me that at very least. It's not just Jean and Betsy—it's her questions. St. John and Bobby both reported some unusual reactions from her. Not to mention her history, which is just a little too vague for my peace of mind. It's been two years since the war and I can't find a report of her or anyone like her in any of the recovered databases. And with Hank's appearance in this zone—"

"You found her sister, though."

"Yes." A pause. "Carol Danvers died five years ago in the Miami Camp, around the same time you and Kitty escaped. But nothing on a Marie Danvers or any information on anyone with her abilities. And there would be, Logan. If they got a matched pair, there _would_ be some files on it."

"We haven't decrypted half of what we found in those labs, and most of that was incomplete. Come on, Scott, you're reaching here."

"When Jean's able to run a full genetic work-up, we'll know more." I could almost hear the patter of Scott's fingers—his stress relief. He definitely sounded stressed.

"You're worried about me?"

The amused shock in Logan's voice was almost funny.

"Yes, I am," Scott answered seriously, and I blinked, balancing myself against the wall. _Not_ what I expected. "She's physically stronger and she's invulnerable, not to mention she can fly up high enough and drop you. And considering the hell you give Jean in the lab, I don't want to see you back there so we can unbend your skeleton if Marie gets bored and decides to play with it. It's annoying to hear you bitch."

A longer silence.

"I could be wrong, Logan. But instinct says not to trust her, not until we know more."

"Then it'd probably be better if I kept her under observation." A low laugh. "Cyke, she's a kid—if she pulls anything that threatens us, I'll gut her myself. You know me better than that. Invulnerable or no, I think the labs showed us what could be accomplished against mutants if you're creative enough."

Gut me.

"Logan, we've been friends for a long time—and this is the first time I've argued the side of caution. That tell you anything? Your private life is yours, fine—but if it affects the team, I want to know about it."

"You're really pushing."

"It's my job. Goes along with my other charming personality traits. I was going to assign St. John to watch her, but since you're already—in a position to do so, I suppose that'd be redundant. I trust you, Logan. You see or feel anything off about her—"

"If I think she'll betray us, I'll fix the problem." End of discussion voice. I sat back against the wall, chilled, and then began to edge down the hall. End of discussion voice meant end of discussion period, therefore immediate emergence from room. "I'll meet you downstairs."

"All right." Scott, giving in gracefully because he'd already won. New, definitely. I listened for the door to open, then the sounds of footsteps going down the opposite direction. When they faded, I stood up cautiously, hearing the sounds of the elevator.

Breath now. Breathe. He'd never gut you. Never. Probably. Biting my lip, I crept down the hall toward the exit stairs. I didn't hear anything—

"Try that again and you _will_ be watched. I'll assign one of my men to do it, got it?"

I whirled around to see Logan leaning against the corner, head slightly tilted, utterly unreadable. I took a deep breath, remembering to keep still, not to make too much noise. Oddly, it was the concept of Logan having his own set of men watching me that disturbed me most—the Logan I knew _ran_ from leadership positions. This one had _people_ working for him, ready to take orders. Creepy.

"You blame me for being curious?" I choked out, pretty impressed I could even manage a coherent sentence.

"Nope. Blame you for being stupid. You've managed, in two days, to make at least five people suspicious, which is quite an accomplishment, since Bobby's about as perceptive as a post. When I get back, first thing, you tell me everything you've said to anyone, and the history you gave Scott. The last thing we need is Jeannie to go checkin' out your mind—"

"She can't." At Logan's raised brow, I hurried on. "She and Betsy already tried. They can't get in. It's—it's part of my mutation. Multiple personalities make it hard to read me, and Jean—my Jean—taught me to shield. Even if—"

"Hard to read, not impossible, and Jeannie's had a lot of practice working her way through shields and other crap." He took a step closer, utterly serious. "Listen to me—you don't wanna test this. At all. And I sure as hell don't wanna look for a way to talk you outta her lab if she feels threatened enough to do a deep scan, which, considering Scott's reaction, is too fucking likely for my peace of mind." Logan breathed out—he was worried. No, fuck, he wasn't just worried, he was actively nervous about this, maybe even a little scared, and I wondered what constituted a deep scan.

I decided just then that this was something I could be happy never finding out.

"I'll be more careful."

Logan gave me a long look.

"So far, your idea of careful and mine are different, baby. When you meet with St. John, keep in mind he's one of Scott's best informants and don't try to get away from him—that'll just make everything worse. Keep in his line of sight, don't go scouting for interesting things to look at." Logan sighed, and it must've meant something that I could exasperate two separate Logans so easily. Whether it was good or not was debatable. "If Scott had been paying any attention at all, you'd have been caught here spying, and shit if I know how I'd have gotten you out of a chat with Jeannie then. You're just damn lucky he's been distracted recently."

He'd gut me if I was a threat. I didn't believe that, did I?

I felt myself begin to shake, and Logan caught the change in my scent, the involuntary movements of my body. A step and he slid an arm around my waist, ignoring the exposed skin of my face to gently hold me.

"Marie, I won't let anything happen to you." His voice was soft, brushing through the hair near my ear. "I'll take care of you, all right? You've just—you gotta be more careful."

I nodded against his shoulder, taking in a long breath, wondering if I could ever forget his voice when he said he would gut me if I was a threat. I had to believe he wouldn't—had to believe it or that was it. That would be the end of my sanity right there. After several minutes, I was finally able to pull away, looking up at him, trying to make myself believe it.

It was a simple choice and I nodded and chose to believe. He'd never hurt me. The long fingers stroked my hair back, then he tilted my head up gently.

"Now go. Be careful. I'll find you when I get back, all right? If you want to go back to the apartment, the keys are in my office—just get the car and go. If anything happens and you get worried, just go. I'll fix it when I get back." He raised my chin a little. "And stay the fuck away from Jeannie if you possibly can until I've talked to her." With that, he let me go and turned away, back to the corridor and toward the elevator. Shaking a little, I turned around and walked toward the emergency stairs.

Like I needed to be more paranoid than I already was.

* * *

St. John arrived in the foyer a few minutes after I did, and it was obvious Scott had had a little chat with him. The blue eyes looked me over carefully and I smiled brightly and waited for him to say something.

"All right, you ready?" He took in my boots and jeans, eyes lingering on my gloves again. I wondered if my shirt was high enough to slip the collar on underneath and decided against it—no one had tried to touch me yet, and I had enough leftover paranoia to be aware of any feints in that direction. Okay. I could do this. "Scott wants me to show you standard procedure—while on non-official missions, it's slightly different, since this isn't advertised and only half the team will be gone."

"Are you always in charge of campus security when Logan's gone?" I asked as we began to walk, noting the tiny comm in his ear again. I had to wonder how he concentrated so well—but then, he'd had two years to learn to do it. It'd taken me a _long_ time to get used to hearing verbal orders in my ear and listen to the world outside—and I'd never quite figured out how to get my inner voices and the outer world synched well enough to concentrate on both at once either. Says something about my attention span.

_—You're gettin' better at it, darlin'.—_ Logan's voice was soft and I smiled to myself at his amusement.

"Nope, that's Remy, but he's on assignment. Anyway, beta is school security, and Remy's a permanent alpha team member" See, this was the thing. At home, there were three teams that rotated pretty frequently—for vacation time, for off-duty, and just for relaxation. I got the distinct impression that what St. John was referring to was much more rigidly organized.

As St. John launched into the technical aspects of what amounted to be alert without looking like an alert, I took in the security systems, listening with half an ear. Official and non-official action were two very different things, it seemed; one was meant to be public and advertised, such as the destruction of the FoH cell—but this one, which I wasn't clear on the details and St. John didn't seem very eager to tell me about, was meant to be utterly private. Hidden. Rumor, not fact.

Perfect cover for legal terrorism, in fact. Somewhere out there, Scott, Logan, and Ororo were going to put some serious fear of mutantkind in someone and make sure it went through by word of mouth only—or maybe as nothing at all. Remembering Logan's cool suggestion of a bombing, I suddenly wondered how normal this was.

"It's not really a problem—again, it's rare someone gets into the New York zone without us knowing about it. There are plenty of countermeasures in effect. But the problem with infiltrators is the reason we have this policy—we've had several cases of hacking our databases. Luckily, Kitty designed and protected the systems pretty well, so all we really worry about is people in the Mansion who try to get in using the computers here." St. John shrugged. "It happens, but we've caught them most of the time."

I blinked, feeling a chill creep down my spine.

"What happens to them—someone caught hacking? Here?"

St. John shrugged a little.

"Send them to Scott—he takes care of the problem. Usually lose their citizenship and blacklisted. Affiliated countries won't accept them, and non-affiliated usually hate mutants. Pretty much the definition of screwed over. There aren't many places to hide, unless you're really hot for Antarctica or something." He grinned a little and I wondered what that meant, but he was already moving on. "Doesn't happen often."

No, I imagined not.

"SHIT!"

Four hours later, I found out exactly how very, very, very practiced the second team was. On the back lawn facing a good-size area of brush, St. John and I ran into what had to be some of the best trained humans I'd ever run across.

My mind processed three things before the first one fired, hitting me in the chest and knocking me several feet backward—one, thank God I didn't put on that collar. Two, that they were black-ops trained, because if there was one thing Logan's memories had given me, it was the ability to recognize genuine style when I was up against it, and this was the real deal. Third—St. John Allerdyce was far more capable than I'd ever believed.

Instantly, a wall of fire spun around him as I sat up, rubbing my chest. Liquid yellow-red, it looked almost solid, touchable, burning an instant black line into the flawless lawn. No permanent damage to my body—hurrah invulnerability—but the ache wasn't making it easy to breathe. Stumbling to my feet, I watched St. John concentrate, both hands raised carefully as he barked sharp orders into the comm and kept his gaze on the group watching us. Back-up. We needed back-up.

My eyes quickly catalogued the scene—eight, spread out neatly in an obvious attack pattern. Black ops were well-trained—I'd guess they were ready for counter-measures, though, and their uniforms were distressingly sturdy—heads completely covered, stepping through the fire without much hesitation. That was some seriously good psychological conditioning there too—I was invulnerable and literally could walk through fire without a scratch, but had never actually voluntarily _done_ it. Dropping into a crouch, I let my mind slip over into defense, removing everything else from my consciousness.

_—Good girl.—_ Almost a growl, as Logan's personality slid into the dominant position in my mind, allowing me access to his abilities as well as my own. —_Focus.—_

I understood that completely. Taking a breath, I let it out, noting their weaponry quickly—I wasn't familiar with anything but the Glock, which seemed to officially be standard issue around here. Damn, I wished I'd worn mine. St. John's eyes narrowed as the group entered the first wall of fire, intensifying it slightly and I saw in surprise that the edges turn dark blue—ultra-hot, he wasn't able to do that in my world.

Then his blue eyes seemed to completely dilate and the fire closed like a living fist around one of them, dragging a scream out of the man and jerking me out of shock—because I'd _never_ seen anything like that before. The total concentration St. John was using, however, was amazing—a second fist opened up and shut itself around man number two, and the other six backed off warily. Sweat broke out across Johnny's forehead, but his hands were steady and so was his fire.

The other invaders saw me, just outside the edge of the fire and looking awfully vulnerable.

_—Be careful.—_

I grinned to myself. I knew that much.

Ops dude number three went down hard—good uniforms were all very well, but they didn't protect against the strength to knock through solid titanium I heard bones break under my fist and the impact of another weapon against my lower back, sending nerves screaming through my thighs. I dropped into a crouch to take in the damage and the tingling that meant invulnerability was pissy about being challenged—that weapon had been more than high caliber, it contained something else that was working my nervous system. Spinning, I marked the remaining five with a glance.

I chose the one pulling out a second weapon—I couldn't do this alone, and they worked together too well, circling me warily. And St. John couldn't possibly help—he was holding two, so I should at least take two down myself. Fair's fair and all.

I jumped before they could move in, using flight to extend my leap, coming in at the knees and shattering a kneecap with a kick of my foot, before the tingling in my back started to drag me down. Fuck, what _was_ that crap? I took a breath—there was one sure-fire fast method of getting them all down with a minimum of annoyance—and St. John was distracted, so he wouldn't see.

And really, this was information, after all. I could use it.

_—Marie—_

I shut down my mind, working one glove off, not wanting to hear Carol's or Logan's protests. The four remaining paused—probably suddenly wondering what it meant when a mutant removed her gloves during a fight.

Logan had said they didn't have absorbers, none. Not in the records, not in the camps. Now they had me—

"Now, Kitty!"

I whirled at the sudden feel of cold around me, rolling out of the way of the first blast as ice followed—Bobby close by, and then everything went strangely surreal, my vision changing—what the hell _was_ that in that fucking gun? I knew the effects well enough—invulnerability trying to neutralize a new and ungood threat to my body and sucking out energy from everything else to do it. On the upside, recovery time would be faster next time, but I really, really couldn't afford—shit. I blindly worked my glove back on, jerking at the sound of a voice to my left and struggled to maintain my balance. Three bullets narrowly missed my leg as Kitty took up a sniper's position just outside the fight zone. Good girl.

Kitty and Bobby were doing fine, no problem—but Johnny—oh dear God. A flicker of the flame revealed St. John hit the ground with a modified roll and a Ops guy already on him.

_—Pyro.—_

Shock jerked my head up, a hissed breath parting my lips. Not from me.

_—Carol?—_

Terror. Absolute, blind, unthinking terror and anger and reaction to it.

Carol was already moving—grabbing my feet from under me and dragging me along—_Pyro?_—her single-minded determination taking over completely so I could only watch. We floated effortlessly over one well-singed body and straight through fire, that would have made me wince if I could, before St. John was in view, the barrel of that weird-ass gun against his stomach and blood trickling down his chin. The dark blue eyes were still dilated, holding concentration on the two trapped in his flames, and I'd bet money Ops Dude was itching to get them back in commission Real Soon Now.

_—Oh hell no, you little norm fucker.—_

Carol was a streetfighter by inclination and avocation—dirty all the way. I had just a little too much Scott Summers in me to throw myself blindly into a fight and break whatever got in my way, but Carol was six years my senior—rather, had been when I killed her—and more ruthless than I'd ever been or probably could ever be. Our fist went out, stabbing straight through the back and shattering his ribs, hand closing around a living heart before ripping it out his back, splintering the remains of his spine. Bone fragments clung to our gloves and sprinkled around our feet.

For an endless second, I grasped a human heart in my hand and running through me was Carol's rich satisfaction, Logan's unwilling pleasure, blood thick in my nostrils and awakening things in me I'd never known were there, never had even tried to discover in the very depths of my soul. All I knew was that it felt too good and I should never feel like that after taking a life.

I knew the feeling and I'd hated it every time.

He keeled over at our feet, soaking our shoes—my shoes—in blood as I ripped control from Carol. Shaking, I fell to my knees, staring at the bloody muscle in my hand before dropping it on the ground, feeling rather than seeing the others drawing close.

I couldn't pass out, couldn't do anything, because then they might touch me and that would be all kinds of not good. Can't do it. Won't do it. Sit up, Rogue, and for God's sake stop being such a little girl.

Looking up, I watched St. John slowly sit up, the clear blue eyes meeting mine.

"Thanks," he whispered, and I nodded, mouth dry. Carol's feelings were fading, and I looked down at St. John, dazed, wondering if he'd ever known how much Carol had loved him—no, he never had.

"You okay?" I almost offered him a hand, but the blood soaking my gloves was just—no. I flinched a little as I heard Bobby approached, then Kitty phased into view, and they all looked at me as if I'd suddenly grown horns—or as if I'd just saved the universe as they knew it.

"Get the samples, Kitty," St. John said softly, slowly moving into a crouch, rubbing his hand across his stomach before focusing on the fire, letting it die completely, dropping the two well-singed bodies—uniforms still intact. They'd been ready for him. "Bobby, strip the uniforms and pile them over there." Casually, he flipped over the body beside us, turning over the right wrist, pulling the glove back out of the way. Deep burns—acid. I shivered, focusing on that. It seemed better than thinking about what I'd just done. "Burned out chip—no reason for extraction. Hurry, Kit. We need to report." A pause and he started giving orders into the comm, something about Mansion security, calling a full lockdown. Faintly, I could now hear the alarms that must have been going since the first rush.

I couldn't follow anything, even as St. John braced a hand under my elbow and pulled me unresistingly to my feet.

"You okay, Marie?"

"Yeah," I answered automatically. He nodded shortly and turned away, kicking by the corpse before directing Kitty in the location of the pile. My stomach did a flip and then resettled, discipline asserting itself. I was Rogue, I'd seen death before.

But I'd never done it so personally, either. Not since Carol.

"Got the samples?" Kitty took blood samples on little cards, sealing each one up in a tiny plastic lab baggie, before tucking them into a leather case she was carrying. Nodding, she stepped back as Bobby dragged up a corpse stripped of uniform, dropping it in the center of the burn zone St. John had created when they attacked. Slowly, the other seven were added, also stripped of their uniforms, and Bobby got hold of my elbow and led me back.

It was a few seconds before I realized what he was doing—at fifteen feet away, Bobby touched my shoulder to bring me to a halt and I watched St. John's hands come up, a bright blaze of blue-white fire that emanated amazing amounts of heat even where we were standing. A few endless seconds with St. John's slim body outlined almost black against the sheer power of it, and the smell of searing human flesh came to my nose before everything was over—when I looked again, the world seemed so much darker and the men had been reduced to ash and charred bones in the center of a blackened area that used to be living grass.

Instantly, Bobby was moving and I watched St. John collapse backward just as Bobby got behind him.

"Cleaning crew will be here in a few minutes," Kitty told me as I blinked at what I'd just witnessed. "Come on—let's go get cleaned up. Bobby'll take care of John." She tilted her head, peering in my face. "You sure you okay?"

Her kind voice snapped me into motion.

"Fine, Kitty-kat," I murmured, dragging out my composure and wrapping it around me like a tattered cloak. "Just fine."

"That was fast thinking, by the way," she said as we approached the Mansion. "John's pretty valuable, you know. He was on the priority Alpha list from identification."

"Oh." I wondered what to say to that.

"Pyrokinetics are valuable—the experiments on his capacity were off the scale. He was in a Genoshan collar for almost a year after they managed to top him out—blew up most of the city of Lansing, Michigan, a mutant refuge. Scared them to death." Kitty's voice grew quiet. "Logan and Hank got him out. He doesn't remember a lot of it. Or a lot of the first year after the war, for that matter. When we got him out, it took him a long time to snap out of it—we had him in isolation in Alberta for almost three months, no control at all, burned up everything close to him. Bobby and I were with him the entire time—it was pretty rough." Kitty's face darkened a little. "Whatever they did, it changed him—he has a hard time _not_ using it now. Builds up inside of him sometimes and he has to release."

"Oh." I glanced over my shoulder, watching St. John shake off Bobby's supporting arm and staggering upright. Bobby was waiting to catch him when he stumbled, just like always, keeping the space he knew St. John needed, but the warm blue eyes were filled with worry. So familiar, so much like training at home. They'd always been amazing together. I had to wonder why this Bobby hadn't figured it out already. Strong fingers rested lightly on Johnny's shoulder and I watched as St. John slowly nodded.

I quickly turned my gaze back to the Mansion, trying to remember how Jean had tested St. John—I knew for a fact we'd never seen him do anything close to pure cremation temperatures. And that fast—I tried to review what I knew of St. John's mutation at home; I'd trained with him, but the flashes of pure heat like that—I knew I'd never seen that before. "Why—why did he—did he burn them?"

"They got inside the perimeter defenses, violation of alpha zone restrictions. We don't return bodies for burial when it's treason.

I started a little but Kitty didn't seem to notice, pulling out a pack of gum and offering me a piece before pulling out some and stuffing it in her mouth without thought.

"You're really good," she said finally, as we approached a grey metal door—backdoor to the underground. Kitty punched in her security code, waited, then moved a little in front of the door as it did a retinal scan. A soft click and she opened the door, motioning me to precede her.

"Thanks," I answered, belatedly realizing she wanted a response.

"Fast, too. You'd be great on the team, you know?" How nice. Ripping out someone's heart qualified me for team membership. Ducky. I knew at that second my stomach wasn't going to last much longer, and luckily, Kitty sped us both toward the showers without much more in the way of conversation. Or if she did say anything, I sure didn't hear a single word.

I could still feel the weight of that mass of tissue in my hand and the second Kitty moved on to a far shower, I shut the screen and locked it, flipping the hot water on, ignoring my clothes, and dropped to my knees to throw up, jerking the grating on the drain out at the last second so the evidence would be washed away.

Bloody water twisted lazily around my hands and to my horror, I could see it on the cuff of my shirt. Wiping my mouth, I ripped my gloves off, throwing them against the tiled wall, then my shirt, hearing the buttons popping off and rolling somewhere over the tiles.

White tiles—why on earth would the team bathroom have white tiles? I brushed bloody water out of view, seeing the smears of red-tinged water on my hands and then realized the knees of my jeans were responsible—clotted there, dear God, get it off, get it off, get it _off_—

_—Marie, baby—_

Oh God, no, not now. I fumbled my jeans off, looking desperately for the collar in my pocket, almost dropping the key as I fastened the metal around my neck, shutting down all the voices—I couldn't listen to him rationalize what I'd done, even if Carol had done it—

—I'd let her and I'd _liked_ it.

Leaning back against the side wall, I let the water rush over me—too hot, already reddening my skin now that invulnerability was off—and distantly, I heard Kitty's voice, singing something off-key and in French. She'd always been a shower singer. Licking my lips, they came away faintly iron and unreasonably attractive, and vaguely, I remembered—I'd been wearing my gloves, they'd been on me when I wiped my mouth, dear God, I couldn't do this, I couldn't, I couldn't—

"Marie?"

I pushed myself under the full power of the shower, so it came down on me, not noticing the scrape of my knees over the grate, lifting my face to the too-hot water and taking it in, taking it all in.

"Marie! Shit, what the fuck—."

"John, she's—"

God, leave me alone, please. Please. I didn't want to handle this, I didn't give a shit about handling anything now. I could smell the iron of the blood that had worked into my skin, and the hand that had done it—the hand I'd used was staring at me like an accusation. And under my nails, that crap had worked inside my _gloves_—

—fuck this, I wasn't going to deal. Just fuck it.

Vaguely, I heard the sounds of the door being shattered, several voices, then someone's hand on my shoulder.

"Marie, babe—" I heard him hiss something before kneeling in front of me, pulling my hands up from the floor, and I realized I'd been scraping my nails into the tile. "Get out. All of you." St. John—no, Pyro, who coolly immolated eight corpses and walked away, who had wrapped two people in fists of fire so they could burn before his eyes—he grasped both my shoulders, meeting my eyes before breathing out something that sounded like a curse. Over his shoulder, I glimpsed Bobby's and Kitty's startled faces, but my eyes wouldn't focus. "Clear out, everyone; that's an order."

"John—" Kitty, sounding worried. I buried my face in my hands and St. John pulled me close, blocking the sight of my body, water soaking us both.

"I'm field commander of Mansion security until we stand down—Bobby, go on perimeter sweeps and organize the others. There could be more. Kitty, stand outside the door and I don't care if Lensherr wants in here, no one comes in, got it? Out, now."

A pause, then there was nothing—I guessed they were leaving. St. John shifted onto his knees, pressing my head against his shoulder and running careful hands down my back, then up until he found the collar.

"Where did you—"

"Leave it," I whispered. "Keeps you safe." He nodded against my cheek, arm tightening around me.

For the longest time, he knelt with me on the tile floor, letting the water simply rush over us both, until he was soaked, and as I slowly pulled myself together, I realized he was dressed in clean clothes and I could barely smell the hint of char on his skin.

"Sorry," I whispered. The slightest shrug of his shoulders.

"You okay?"

"No." I'd never be okay again. I'd killed a man and watched Johnny burn the bodies after without flinching. For treason.

"All right."

A few more minutes of comfortable silence between us, and I lifted my head. The blue eyes looked into mine, before he stood up, pulling me to my feet.

"Just stand still. Close your eyes and just breathe. Okay?"

I nodded numbly and I heard him switch the settings on the shower—the water was considerably cooler and felt wonderful to my burned skin. Methodically, he removed my remaining clothes, throwing them somewhere out of the shower stall, then turned away as I focused on regaining my control, pushing everything into silence in my head. I felt the sponge against my back, and without comment, St. John washed me himself, turning me like a wooden doll, rinsing my hair out, then lifting me over the broken glass of the door and leaving briefly, before returning with a towel. With quick, precise movements, he dried me off and wrapped the towel around me.

Distantly, I realized I was shivering.

"It's never easy, Marie." A tentative brush against the skin of my face and I flinched, imagining I could smell charred meat in the air around his hand.

It seemed pretty easy. Really easy. I could kill anything on two legs—in theory, I'd always known I could. Reality had just caught up—I'd killed him myself, and not with a gun or as a casualty—it'd been so personal, so close. I'd reached inside him—

"Shh. It's okay." I looked around, realizing I was sitting on a bench and St. John left as I slowly brushed my fingers over the edge of the towel, looking at my own hand in shock, at the lack of blood—I was sure there should be some sign of what I'd done. No one did what I'd just done and not had it on them somewhere. I could still smell the blood over the soap and the fresh scent of the towel.

I shut my eyes and decided not to think about it anymore.

After a few minutes, I heard him return, and my feet were lifted into a pair of sweats. He pulled me gently to my feet, dressing me like a doll, pulling a t-shirt over my head, then something on my hands—I looked down and saw him working a pair of felt gloves over my hands and arms.

"Where—"

He shrugged, not meeting my eyes.

"We have them around for touch-telepaths that have problems with control." I took the other from him and slowly pulled it on. Stared at my hands.

"You must think—"

"I think a lot of things. Come on—you were in there awhile."

I blinked a little, surprised.

"I was?"

"Yeah." He smiled then, a little, a hand brushing down my hair—not touching my skin, and the thoughtfulness surprised me. "Scott will want a report—we all need to be there to give it, but I can—I mean, you don't have to be there, all right? No one except us were out there."

God, he was going to lie for me. I stared back at him.

"No. I—I can handle it."

One eyebrow arched slowly, then the briefest nod, before he took my elbow, leading me to the bathroom door. God, the embarrassment—but I honestly didn't care. He pushed the door open and Kitty jumped from her position beside it.

"Get someone who can keep their mouth shut to clean up in there," he said shortly. "Is Scott and the alpha team back yet?" I realized he'd taken the comm off. For some reason that my mind wouldn't process, that was endearing—he'd taken off the comm to deal with me.

"Yes to both—he's up in his office with Logan—I told him you'd bring Marie with you when you went up." Her lips quirked up in a grin when she looked at me, and I had no idea what that meant. "Logan's worried."

"Did you tell them—"

"Nothing, oh Leader." She reached out, hesitated, then gave my covered arm a squeeze. "S'okay, Marie. It happens to everyone, you know?"

I tried on a smile to reassure her, and St. John nodded at Kitty, before he led me to the elevator. Then turned suddenly, looking at Kitty.

"Lensherr in there?"

Kitty paused and thought.

"Not when I was up. He's still in Washington, I think. Back tonight."

"Good. I'll talk to you after I report—Scott will want you later, so be ready."

Kitty straightened and mockingly saluted.

"Anything else, oh Captain my Captain?"

That broke out a grin.

"Can you be in my bed naked in an hour?"

"When hell freezes over."

"Bobby can arrange that."

They grinned at each other and then St. John fastened his hand under my elbow and led me to the lift.

* * *

"What happened?"

Damn good question.

Logan had sat on the far side of Scott's office as St. John gave his exceedingly succinct report. Hadn't said anything when I stood up and gave Scott mine—hideously unvarnished, unable to find a euphemism for what I'd done, not really caring anymore, because shit, these people—this thing was everyday to them. It was treason to invade the school and people died for it. Executed.

Treason, and that was a word I'd never really related to my life before. Treason was something governments handled, distantly, involving complex negotiations and spies and people in expensive suits with brown envelopes filled with money in vague places like Vienna and Yalta and Moscow or maybe Beijing. It'd never had anything to do with my life, with my world.

Yet—yet I'd just done the equivalent of executed a man for treason, and everyone seemed fine with this.

"What happened?" I echoed from the other side of the car. Scott had nodded, noting down what I told him on the paper in front of him, immortalizing the actions of Marie Danvers for posterity. Blinking, I'd sat back down and felt that red-visored gaze on me—suspicions perhaps leavened by the fact that I'd so easily killed a man. Not injured, like the first two—killed. With my own gloved hands.

For treason, of all Godforsaken things, and what the hell did that mean? I lowered my head into my hands, trying to put everything together. Logan had stood up finally when I was done, giving Scott a long look that seemed to shut out everything else in the room before he reached down and took my hands, pulling me unresistingly to my bare feet—and I wondered what had happened to my shoes, and did one give reports on death in bare feet with your hair still wet? Said something to St. John and Scott, and I felt their sympathetic gaze on me as I walked out of the office like a lost puppy with Logan's hand on my back, perhaps aware I didn't give a good damn where we were going.

And maybe I was a lost puppy. Who the hell knew.

"I'm fine, Logan." I wasn't fine—I wasn't even in the general realm of fine. Raising a hand, I fingered the collar, wondering if I could take it off yet and let Logan and Carol tell me how very justified my actions were—not because of all the treason nonsense, but because the man had been the Enemy and of all things I should know instinctively, the Enemy was always fair game. It was him or me—or rather, him or St. John, and St. John's life was more important than that man's to me, to Carol.

I didn't want to hear Logan say Carol had done it, because it was my hands that had, my powers that were used, and it was my pleasure when it was done. I couldn't deny that.

"You're not fine, baby." There was a lengthy pause, before he suddenly flicked on the brakes, pulling to the side of the road—not quite off, but even what used to be the most populated roads in the Salem/NYC area were pretty much the definition of deserted. Coming to a stop, he flipped the car into park and turned slightly. I gave him a sideways glance, taking in his obvious worry, the restless movements of his hands. He wasn't sure what to do, what exactly I needed—it was endearing.

For the first time, I noted he was wearing his seatbelt.

"I guess you learned your lesson," I choked out, and he frowned a little. With one felt-covered hand, I brushed against the woven vinyl across his chest. "You know, after careening out of the truck—you still don't in my world." Lightly, I ran a finger down mine as well. "I don't need to, but I still do. Habit."

He stiffened a little and I withdrew my hand. He reached out, catching it in a firm grip.

"I remember." Gently, he rubbed my palm with his thumb, shaking his head slightly. "Marie, I'm sorry. Scooter'd never sent you out with Johnny if we thought there was any real threat."

"I've never killed anyone like that before." I let out a slow breath, knowing somewhere in the back of my mind that if I didn't bring this under control now, I'd break. "That was—it wasn't just Carol moving inside me. It was me too—I liked it, how I could—how I had the power to. I never—" I stopped, drawing in a breath and Logan waited patiently while I tried to gather my thoughts. "I haven't taken a life since Carol. And she was an accident—I never meant to kill her. That was—that was knowing I would kill him—not hurt him or stop him. If he'd backed away from Johnny and threw up his hands to surrender, the only difference would be that I'd break his sternum getting through, not his spine."

"That's new to you."

I turned on him, irrational anger pouring through me.

"That's not who I am! I'm an X-Man, I—" Oh fuck, I was talking to an X-Man, and I knew what these X-Men did to enemies. Shit, my own Logan would have taken this pretty coolly—he understood all about instinct and reaction and the necessity of death.

Logan reached over and unhooked my seatbelt, pulling me unresistingly across the wide front seat until he wrapped a gentle arm around me. Shutting my eyes, I let myself pretend, just for a minute—just for a second—that this was my Logan, who held me just as close after my first mission, when I'd thrown up in the Blackbird. Who'd sat with me when I cried through the shock of the first time I'd faced down FoH members, and who had sat outside that nightmarish isolation chamber when Carol battled me for my body.

He'd always been my source of security, of peace, of strength, the reason I became the person I was. I let myself believe this man was too, turning into his shoulder and burying my face, letting it go in a rush of emotion and release while he stroked my hair back, not saying a word.

When we arrived back at the apartment, Logan pushed me over to the couch, handing me a beer and patiently waiting while I assimilated what I'd done.

"What are affiliated countries?"

Logan glanced up from his contemplation of the view outside his window—I saw him do that pretty often, wondered what part of Manhattan was so fascinating.

"Affiliated countries—the world leaders who walked outta Magneto's gadget as mutant—walking being a general term." He muttered something, glancing down at his half-full beer.

"They didn't have the war that you had here?"

"Sometimes, sometimes not." Logan gave me a glance. "It's in the databases, if you wanna read up—Scott knows more about that crap than I do."

I doubted that—I'd guess Logan simply didn't want to talk about it. Fair enough.

"What's the difference between official and non-official missions?"

He jerked around, giving me a long look, before finally giving up the window and crossing the room, dropping on the edge of the coffee table (which was far more stable than it looked, since Logan's weight wasn't inconsiderable).

"Straight to the hard questions, huh?" Logan took another swallow from the can, then put it down on the table beside him. "Long story."

"I have time, apparently," I answered. "What's the difference?"

With a growled sigh, Logan rested both elbows on his knees, looking thoughtfully in the general area of ear before finally answering.

"Official means we follow the rules of conduct for enemies—they get arrested. Unofficial we don't. Official is reported and can be read by anyone. Unofficial means no one knows other than those that gave the orders and those who received them."

I paused a little.

"_I _know about the non-official mission."

A grin cracked his face then.

"Yes, you do, which is the reason the next time you show your pretty face on campus, don't be surprised if you have Johnny attached to your hip. Scooter's testing you."

Shoulda guessed.

"Yeah." I looked at my beer, from which I'd taken no more than one drink, and quickly chugged another mouthful. "I can understand that." Glancing down again, I shrugged a little. "You have better beer? This is crap, Logan, even for you."

Logan choked on a laugh, bringing my head up sharply—making me grin despite myself.

"I'll find you something better, darlin'," he answered, then glanced at my clothes. "And something to wear."

I flushed a little, shrugging.

"I have one set left in Kitty's room." The new stuff was in Logan's laundry basket. School sweats, comfy as they might be, just weren't really high on the fashion scale. So I wasn't a trendsetter—I wanted to at least look decent.

"You want me to go get it?"

I took another drink of my beer.

"Yeah—and I need to do laundry." Come to think of it, some of my clothes were in the shower downstairs. Would someone figure they were mine? Would—the key was still in my pocket. Oh dear God.

Logan watched curiously as I dropped my beer on the coffee table, hands scrambling for my throat, feeling the edges of the collar.

"The key—"

"Where'd you leave it?"

I gave Logan a harassed look.

"My jeans pocket. I had a little situation in the showers—" I trailed off as Logan nodded—of course, one of the team had reported the Nervous Breakdown of the New Girl. Shit. Before I could get another word out, Logan got to his feet, picking up his can.

"I'll go find them." A pause. "Do you want to go back to campus?"

Oh dear God. I couldn't face Kitty after the way I'd acted. She'd be—sympathetic, and sweet, and draw totally wrong conclusions and I didn't want to have to handle that. Not to mention a St. John Allerdyce who saw me very naked.

"Can I—" But what would Logan think, if I was constantly crashing on his couch? This was the fourth night—not that he'd complained, and first night had been mostly spent with revelations and such, but still—what if he wanted company. Female-type company? Or actually, considering this was Logan, any-type sexual company. I began to get up. "I'm fine. You can—you can take me back." I was brave. I'd face Kitty and St. John and Scott's suspicions.

"Shit."

Huh?

Logan shrugged.

"Means I gotta be on campus tonight." His sigh was almost mocking. "I _am_ supposed to be watching you," he said mildly when he saw my mouth gape open.

I hadn't thought of that.

"Here's fine." Here was good. I mean, obviously, if he was going to have to watch me anyway. "I just didn't—didn't want to bother you." Sure I didn't want to bother him. Yes, let's all face it now—I was living with Logan. I was _living_ with my primary fantasy. Dear God.

"I'll tell you when you're bothering me." Ah, case closed—very Logan. He picked up the can, walking to the kitchen briefly, before coming back out, keys in hand. "Come on—you can pick up your clothes and we'll go get something to eat."

Oh. Food. I consulted my stomach, which tentatively suggested I tread with caution.

"Nothing spicy."

He grinned a little.

"Sure, baby."

I felt myself warm at the endearment, some of the sick nausea receding as I stood up.

"Logan?"

A quick, questioning glance back at me.

"Thanks."

There was a hesitation before he nodded, a second that I probably wouldn't have noticed anyone else doing, but this was Logan and I knew him inside and out. As he went out the door, shutting and locking it behind him, I curled my legs up under me and wondered at the expression that had chased across his face.

Almost regret.

How odd.

* * *

Well, he was right—in the fact that I'd basically moved in with him. My room was cleared of my clothes and the bed looked remarkably like no one had used it in awhile. Yeah, Marie does _not_ live here anymore. Fishing out the jeans and shirt, I stripped and re-dressed—I liked the clothes Kitty and I had bought. They _fit_. The underwear situation was a different story altogether.

So I didn't want to be a danger to Kitty. True. And I sure as hell didn't want to slip up if a nightmare decided to rear its head. And slipping was so easy when you lived with someone—I _knew_ I'd say something to Kitty, just off the top of my head, that would come from my past with her. Or worse, from _her_ specific past, the past now lodged firmly in my head.

It was more than that though, and sitting down on the edge of the bed, I thought it over, twisting the length of the scarf I'd bought earlier between my gloved fists. Being here—it was doing something to me I couldn't quite describe. Surrounded by all the students who knew me as Marie Danvers—it was worse than slipping up and saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. It was feeling myself becoming more and more Marie Danvers—and the touch of my hand on my hair, the short strands against my fingers, proved it more every second.

My personality, Marie herself, was always in flux—it was a delicate balance to keep stable with the additions of Logan and Carol and Erik and Kitty, and David, and the others I'd touched over the years. Subtle, those I'd only touched once and passing, brief flashes of other times and other places. Me, Rogue, was a mixture of that first girl and everyone who had come in contact with her. Like anyone, Marie grew up, changed, adapted. Unlike others, I desperately worked against inner change, wanted to keep as much of the original me as possible.

I could feel that slipping, the more I let Carol Danvers' memories, Kitty's memories, become Marie Danvers' memories, the more I became the new personality I needed to hide myself. And it was scaring me. The truth was, I was with Logan because I could finally let it down and be just Marie, I could keep her, I could strengthen her and be her.

No, not that either. I was with Logan because I didn't want to be anywhere else. I wanted to be myself and I wanted to be myself with him. Simple as that. He might be a substitute for the one I wanted, but a substitute was better than nothing.

"Marie?"

I turned on the bed and saw St. John standing at the door, blue eyes veiled. Clean and neat in a white t-shirt and jeans, he seemed completely different from the man who'd held me downstairs in the shower. Distant.

"Hey, Johnny." We'd had a severely embarrassing bonding experience. I wasn't quite sure I was ready to see him yet. Giving him a long look, I twisted the remaining shirt in my hand. If I took it, it was sort of an admission that I wasn't living in this room. I _was_ living with Logan. That should bother me and it didn't.

"Feel better?"

I nodded, shifting slightly on the bed. Logan should have found my jeans by now.

"Scott's talking to Logan downstairs about the attack," he told me, answering my unspoken question. I hadn't realized my face was that easy to read. "They'll be a bit. Logan said to tell you it'll be about an hour."

"Oh." I didn't like it. Though really, _was_ it so unusual that Logan was chatting with Scott about the attack?

St. John nodded, pushing the door shut and leaning back against it. His steady gaze was unnerving.

"Does anyone—know why they were here?"

St. John shrugged, absently toying with his pocket.

"Lucas left an interesting report for Lensherr," St. John told me suddenly, and a folder seemed to materialize in his hand. Taking two quick steps, he dropped it by the bed and I turned it over, curious. "What were you doing in the restricted area?"

My hand was steady as I turned the page, an act of pure will. I shrugged.

"Logan—"

"Yeah, Logan told Remy to toss it out and has all three kids locked to campus." I flipped the folder closed, but not before I saw the description of my appearance and the very _non-blonde_ hair I'd had. Shit, shoulda worn the image inducer. "Interesting description, Marie." His eyes fixed on my hair briefly and I almost lunged to cover it, no matter how silly it was The image inducer seemed large and obvious against my hip.

"It was a dark night."

"Yeah. Lucas couldn't explain what he was doing over there—he's stupid sometimes." A pause, before St. John took a step back and pulled something from his pocket. Small and silvery-bright in the bright overhead lights. I blinked a little in surprise. My key. "You forgot to grab this, babe."

I didn't lunge for it and he didn't come any closer to hand it over. We looked at each other for several long seconds before I managed to swallow in a dry throat and choke out a response.

"Thanks."

"Those things aren't good for extended periods of time," St. John answered neutrally, playing with the metal idly.

"Yeah." No way to answer that—and if he asked why on earth I wore one, what the hell would I say? For a second, there was a stalemate.

"Bobby was asking about you. He's worried." There was the slightest trace of derision in the cool voice and that didn't help my nerves any further.

"I'm away from Bobby," I answered sharply, too unnerved to even pay attention to what I was saying. "So you don't need to be nice to me anymore."

An eyebrow arched in apparent surprise—rare, St. John just didn't let emotion show.

"Who says—"

"Can it. You always acted like this. When I was datin' Bobby, you used to—" I broke off and St. John blinked. Before I could find a way to explain that away, St. John turned and locked the door behind him, then spun around, leaning back against the wood. Oddly, he didn't look surprised at all, and that scared me. The intense focus in his eyes scared me even more.

"Rogue." He breathed it like a prayer answered, and that scared me most of all. How the fuck—

"I—I don't know what you're talking about." Somehow, I found it in myself to move, to get up, but St. John shook his head, leaning back against the door.

"Gloves and doesn't want to be touched, except with that collar on. To keep people safe, you said." Shit, I _had_ said that, in the shower. "Brown hair, not blonde. Bobby falling at first sight and following you like a puppy. You wince away from everyone and telepaths can't read you. Logan's hovering like a hen with one chick and throws out files with your name in them and tries to convince Scott you're not a threat, when usually he'd be the first to toss you to Jean." He met my eyes. "You were quiet and wore gloves all the time, because you were scared you'd hurt someone. You think I don't remember. I do. I met you."

"Rogue's dead." Shit, he had to know that, why would he—

"I know—I saw her body. Doesn't change the fact—you're her." He was studying me, matching me with his memories—and Johnny had a good damned memory, no question. I drew in a breath, letting it out slowly.

He was reaching, that was what he was doing. Slowly, I sat down on the edge of the bed.

"You're wrong."

"Carol never had a sister. I knew the bitch inside and out—and apparently, so do you." He paused. "Invulnerability, strength, flying, and Carol's green eyes—add in touch and I can even guess how it happened. She screwed over the wrong person."

I stiffened at the trace of satisfaction in his voice. St.John took two steps toward me, and an arm's reach away. Bad tactical maneuver if he was trying to keep himself safe. But the long fingers reached out and brushed the collar around my throat, before hooking in the chain—Logan's chain—circling my throat, pulling it out and up to the light. Crap. I'd forgotten to take it off.

"These are buried in the cemetery with a dead girl."

I breathed out sharply.

"It's not—"

"Don't try." A casual wave of his hand, dismissing anything I could have come up with—and I couldn't have thought of anything anyway. Damn. "I wanna know how it happened. How you got here."

I took a breath, looking for something to say. There was nothing, nothing I could even begin to try to explain with this. St. John cocked his head, eyes growing a little distant, and I wondered if I could get by him, collared or not. "I'm not sure."

"Logan knows. That's why he's keeping you outta Lensherr's way." A thoughtful silence—he was quick, had to give him that. "Mags would sell his soul to get another absorber—and the rest of our souls to get the original."

"I'm not her. Not like you think." I paused—how the hell did I explain that?

"What do you look like? Show me what Lucas saw the other night." He paused. "I saw the image inducer on your hip, Rogue."

Crap. In the shower. I'd forgotten all about that.

St. John waited, eyes fixed on my face. With a sigh, I tucked a hand under my jeans and flipped the image inducer off, letting him see the streak of white, the dark brown of my hair, letting him take me in.

"Rogue." A pause, and something went out of him—hurt, anger, amusement, relief? No idea, I didn't know how to identify it. Slowly, he sank down on the bed beside me, then pausing to look me over again. He believed, and why did he believe?

"Tell me what happened."

Slowly, I did. Everything—what I had told Logan, what Hank had told me, about the machine and the speculation and my appearance. Finally, St. John was sitting on the bed beside me, looking thoughtful.

"Kitty, that first night—"

"She touched me to wake me up. Fell down after." I wasn't going to tell him I'd inflicted that headache on her, no way. He nodded slowly.

"Makes sense." A pause. "Cool."

Huh?

"What?"

"You know, physics theory appearing before my eyes." He smiled a little. "Before the war, I was getting my bachelor's degree, physics." A little smile. "Faked gene tests, escaped the camps for a few months because of that. My professor was this ancient guy, liked mutants. We spent hours together, talking. Multiverse theory, stuff like that. He was friendly with Xavier and got the original specs to the machine thanks to some judicious payoffs to some of Lensherr's buddies. He was fascinated by it—by the concept of magnetism being a trigger for DNA mutation. And by your ability to absorb raw energy. He had a lot of theories."

I needed his name.

"Dagby," St. John said softly, anticipating my question. "He died during the war. He was put in camps like the other sympathizers. I got him out and into Malta when Scott took back Manhattan. It was too late—he was old and the conditions wrecked his health. But he died with the best care and he wasn't in pain." A pause, and the blue eyes grew distant. "I cremated him over the Mediterranean. He loved Italy." The blue eyes sharpened. "Hank won't come here because of what the X-Men became and because he knows what they're planning. I came here because of that."

"For Bobby." Not so different—Bobby might never notice, but I knew, I'd always known. Didn't say much about me that I dated Bobby anyway, either.

A soft sigh.

"And for Bobby. He's bitter—the things that happened to him, to Cecy." A pause. "I promised Hank and I promised Dagby, promised them I wouldn't be one of the opponents of reintegration. Hank's ostracized by the X-Men, for wanting something different from this. But he was overruled. Scott, Jean, Logan, Ororo, they all supported Magneto, and they were the ones that decided policy—war heroes and all. Mystique sits as president of the United States and follows Lensherr, and the other countries we won follow her."

"They're looking for infiltrators, you have to know that." He was taking a risk, dear God, such a risk.

"They know how much I loved Dagby. They don't think I am one. I've been here since the beginning, to watch and see what I could do."

I stared at him, wondering suddenly about my Johnny—I'd underestimated him. Always did, and shit, I'd have to have a talk with him when I got back. Another smile, a little different now.

"So you—"

"I've been waiting—when I found out about the project with Polaris, everything changed. Except—except you came, and something's different. Logan's spending time off campus and seriously worrying Scott and the others." The blue eyes met mine. "Logan's always been pretty fucking loyal to Scott and the others, you know? So there's some curiosity that he's been—less than enthusiastic about the project."

I nodded slowly, wordlessly encouraging him to continue.

"What—tell me again how you got here?"

I'd told the story enough now that it tripped off my tongue easily, and St. John watched me, weighing every word and every movement of my body. Told him about the store, my world, the key difference that made up Rogue-who-survived and Rogue-who-didn't. Whatever difference that actually was—the only concrete moment I could be sure of was that up until whatever happened on the Statue that night, Rogue had died here.

And the machine had, miraculously, worked.

"Lensherr wants an absorber because he thinks that it might make the difference; either that or the entirety of a mutant's power, up to actual death. And he could be right. Hank has Dagby's notes, the equations, the way to make the changes stick. Mostly."

I felt my stomach drop. Hank could stop the mortality rate. I breathed out slowly, evenly. Logan knew that too. But Hank would never help Erik do this. Even to save those people.

"How many people are going to be in the project?"

St. John's lips tightened.

"Fifteen thousand so far, with more coming in every hour. That's what Salem Complex is—that's why the convoys keep coming, that's why Betsy and Jean aren't on campus as much and that's why they look exhausted." He gave me an amused look. "And why Jean hasn't gotten around to doing a deep scan on you yet. Lensherr's going to jack the machine up as far as it'll go and get everyone. They have lots of volunteers—and they have lots of people who have been manipulated into thinking they're volunteers. And some who are being forced, ones the X-Men need to finish everything, wipe out the threat, the ones they need Jean and Betsy to control—scientists, world leaders, people with power." St. John let out a slow breath—I couldn't breathe at all. "Lensherr wants to switch the ratio over. He doesn't want to live in peace, he never wanted reintegration, especially after Xavier died. He wants practical genocide. Every human being on earth."

_No. _Oh no. No.

"But—even if he changed them all, even if Polaris did work—that leaves the rest of the population of the earth, Johnny. That's—" my mouth went dry "—four billion humans."

A pause. The blue eyes burned into mine for a endless moment and I realized what he didn't want to say. I'd implied it to Logan, but I hadn't—hadn't really comprehended what that meant. Four billion. _Four billion human beings._

"He'll kill them all, won't he?" Magneto had learned a long time ago, in those first camps, how it was done, how easy it was. How to make a lie the truth.

"We're not sure," St. John said slowly, measuring out the words. "And we don't want to find out."


	6. Interlude: Raze

_i feel the night smother the sky_  
_like death's cloak pressed over hope's face._  
_i feel the smoke sting the lungs_  
_until all we breathe is filtered through the_  
_hate we can't wash from our hands._  
_i have gone too long without faith_  
_and my heart is worn and tired_  
_except for these moments_  
_when you make me believe._  
—The Warmth by Darkstar

* * *

_Four years earlier_

Sometimes, there was that slightly surreal moment when Logan held the envelope and remembered a time when money wasn't something he ever worried about. When it didn't mean anything. And not at Xavier's school either—but before.

It was a plain envelope. Legal size, white, and he knew to the dollar what was in it—if anyone had been interested and he'd been drunk enough to tell, he could have told them that every single bill was symbolic. He could remember what he did, what he sold, how much of himself he lost, with every single payment. But he didn't get that drunk and he sure as shit didn't get that introspective.

That wasn't a problem, though—Logan had long since discarded what ethics he still had.

The uniformed man watched Logan drop it on the table as he sat down, and Logan indulged himself in his favorite fantasy—eyes running around the room, marking what would be the most interesting way to kill this man with the items at hand. Lamp cord, mouse cord, a lethal-looking letter opener, electric shock. Stapler to the jugular, pen through the eye, run the asshole's head through the computer monitor. Then there were the personal ways—looking in his eyes and sliding three claws into his stomach, letting them twist to take out the intestines and rearrange his guts. Break his neck with a quick twist of the chin. Rip out his spine with one hand. Slash his throat and watch him choke to death on his own blood.

The fat ass was picking up the envelope and counting the money. Probably unaware that the second his usefulness ran out, he was very dead and Logan planned to make it nice and long and his own personal reward for being so good for so long.

"Outside the back gate, five minutes." Logan nodded shortly, rising. "You have a ten minute window. That's it."

He didn't need more than three.

Standing up, Logan marked the man again in his memory—the unwashed, pompous scent was already imprinted in his mind—before walking out, grabbing the papers off the secretary's desk that outlined his next mission for the Federal Government's Anti-Mutant Task Force. His new identity didn't include his mutation.

He had to be impressed with Kitty's sheer talent—she'd wiped the computers clean before they got out of Miami. The body count was something he knew she regretted even less than he did.

Three minutes later, he waited in the shade of stone walls and razorwire, the huge search beam carefully turned away from his location. One minute counting, and Logan absently shifted the papers into his inner pocket as the tiny door opened—security door only—and a figure was thrown out into the snow. Logan was already moving, quickly checking first for recent or life-threatening injuries, breathing, heartbeat. A quick glance at the long throat revealed the remains of crusted scars, but no collar. Good. He hated prying those things off.

"Keep your eyes closed," he said, and grinned at himself, knowing habit was stronger with Scott Summers than any life in any concentration camp ever could be. Carefully, he took one of Scott's wrists, growling softly over the manacle scars, the open wounds, then did a rough field check for anything he'd need to fix immediately. Not bad—but then, they'd had several days to leave him alone. "You look like crap."

"They took—"

"I know. Got you a spare. Just keep your fucking mouth shut until we're clear."

This was the dangerous part—a few of his pick-ups had been in the system too damn long. Nothing he could do but drug 'em and tie them in the backseat, which probably didn't do much for their sadly tattered trust issues. Fine and dandy, as far as Logan was concerned—drugged and tied and neatly covered on the floorboard, he gave customs the excuse to ignore him, if the government license plate on his jeep wasn't enough.

Scott muttered something uncomplimentary, and it was almost a comfort, as he pulled the man to his feet. Uh-uh—Scott was walking bones. With a patient sigh, he slung the younger man over his shoulders, hearing Scott wince, another string of what could have been profanity, before he started moving.

Time three and a half minutes, and he had to make it past the checkpoint. Not a problem.

After all, Logan had been doing these for awhile.

* * *

On the road in Alberta, he stopped the jeep and checked up on the man curled in the backseat.

"Four more hours." A new route every time, a new way to get there—it added time to the trip, but it was worth the hassle to make sure no one found out where he was.

"Any reason I can't sit up front or are we still in a bad neighborhood?"

Humor. Logan grunted something, but helped Scott shift to the front, watching him fumble the seatbelt on and the blanket over him. The new glasses were fixed over his eyes—not great, but Logan challenged anyone to find black-market ruby quartz glasses. Not exactly the most common thing on earth, and that set was one of Summers' first, owned by a private collector of former X weaponry.

The man had been relieved of most of his collection thanks to Remy. What to him were souvenirs of a lost segment of society was to Logan and Hank requirements for survival.

"You okay?"

"Great. Though you took me out on the day they were considering feeding us." Scott rubbed his shaved head a little, resettling the glasses from habit. Logan restarted the jeep, glancing periodically down the roads around. The deeper they were in, the more comfortable he was, though never once did he take this trip for granted. Anything could go wrong. And had. The reason Logan kept rifles under both seats. Just in case.

"Sorry. Nothing but water until the doc checks you out." Where the hell was that bottle? In the bag at his feet. Got it.

"Doctor?" Fuck. Scott had to know that Logan would have said if it was Jean. After a pause, the cool voice spoke again, and Logan had never heard him sound so young. "Who?"

"McCoy. He and the first group stayed safe." Better not mention Kurt right now.

Scott nodded numbly and Logan searched for a way to tell him what he needed to know. Too much information, Scott would blank it out—normal reaction of recent releasees, and Logan had gotten to the point where he didn't say anything at first. But Scott deserved to know whatever he thought he could handle. Finding the water bottle Hank had mixed especially for Scott, he handed it over and the younger man took it automatically, taking a small drink, stopping almost immediately.

"You'll be fine. Hank mixes those. It'll help your body adjust or some crap. Just take it slow—the drug compounds in your system are gonna be a few days working out."

"What's my life worth?" Scott asked suddenly, and Logan kept his concentration on the road.

"For the former leader of the X-Men? Or a pyroconcussive?"

"I didn't know your vocabulary was that good, Logan."

Good. Hostility. Sometimes it took days for them to snap into it. Logan shook his head.

"I've learned some things. A hundred grand for you, five for the pass that gets me over the borders. Ten thrown in if you're in decent condition." Logan took a breath, letting it out slowly. "You were hard to find, Summers."

"Pet. They liked to see me grovel for the others. Surprised they let me go." Frankly, Logan was too. A chilly silence stretched between them. "Where are we going?"

"Northern Alberta." Scott nodded and Logan flipped his turn signal.

"Who else is out?"

The roll call was depressing.

"St. John Allerdyce. Bobby Drake. Kitty Pryde. Hank McCoy. Remy LeBeau. Most of the first group you sent with me. You're the first of the alpha team I found. Warren's somewhere at large, but no one knows where, probably a good thing." A pause. "The others—"

He wondered how he'd put this.

"Lensherr."

"Still running the resistance out of Genosha once he kicked the assholes out. Rasputin and Mystique are with him. Creed and Tonybee are in detention in Australia but so far are in better shape than you are—Lensherr took care to make sure he had operatives there when the government started anti-mutant measures." Another pause—he already knew Scott's next question.

"Jean?"

"All telepaths are on priority status." Logan thought carefully. "Last seen in D.C. three months ago. Scott—"

"Is she dead?"

"They don't exterminate the telepaths. They want those." They didn't exterminate alpha class mutants either—collars kept them under control. Too potentially useful if they were broken—and several had been. St. John Allerdyce still hadn't emerged from his semi-catatonia, and Logan didn't think about it that often—didn't think about the list in his head, the one that told him that getting Scott out had been this side of a miracle. John and Bobby had been lucky breaks. Very lucky breaks. So incredibly lucky that Logan hadn't believed it would happen again. Not until he got the call from a sympathizer that gave him the name of an Alpha-class facility where there were rumors of the former X leader being experimented on.

Logan thought it was pure good luck they hadn't taken his eyes out for the hell of it. They'd done worse. Logan had seen the bodies.

"Okay." Scott was silent and Logan stared at the road ahead. After several minutes, he heard Scott's breathing even out—the tranks in the water hadn't acted too fast, but they'd cushioned the blow well enough.

And Logan needed the quiet. Desperately. Just to remind himself why he was willing to sell himself out every single day of his life.

* * *

Kitty was waiting outside, wrapped up in her jacket. The second he stopped, she was already moving toward his door.

"You got him." There was a quick glance at Scott, but the dark gaze was fixed on him—it'd been unnerving at first, but he'd adapted to it.

"Yeah." He took a breath, brushing his hand through her hair—for once, she didn't wince from his touch, and he wondered if it was because she was too distracted or because the scars were finally healing. Hank was already at the door and Logan crossed in front of the jeep opened the passenger side.

"He's out—finished half the water and shit, Hank, it took a fucking long time to work."

Hank nodded slowly, absently running a hand over his blue-furred forehead.

"Scott does not like to lack control. I am not surprised."

Logan grinned a little at that and slapped him on the shoulder as Bobby emerged with the bed, rolling it over, and he and Hank began the retrieval of the Fearless Leader. Logan felt Kitty shadow him as he walked inside the compound and turned slightly to watch her from the corner of his eye.

She was gaining back the weight she'd lost—slowly, because food was still something she didn't quite trust unless she prepared it personally. Rarely went outside unless it was him or Hank coming back—once, he'd sat with her for three hours against the outer wall of the compound as she waited for her only other source of stability to return home. Carefully, so she could watch him do it, he touched her shoulder, and she smiled a little, but there was nothing that could cover the sudden stiffening of her body.

"You okay?"

"Sure." Her voice was low. "John ate today. On his own. He recognized Bobby."

"Where is he?" Scott was back, a private litany of relief in his head. Scott understood these kids—Logan had barely known them. Except Kitty and Jubes—he shied away from thinking of Jubilee—and Kitty with him in Miami hadn't been anything close to normal or good. With so little control, she'd fallen apart within the first weeks and whatever the government thought it could do with her was wrecked with her collapse. God, she'd been—what, seventeen? Eighteen? No older than—he stopped the thought completely, feeling her hand tentatively close over his. A little surprised, and he smiled—smile at the kids, Logan—and it didn't matter if she was twenty now, she was still a kid. She pulled him toward the living quarters, where the others were housed.

Three doors down, and she knocked twice—a mistake walking in once when John suddenly began to remanifest his mutation and almost incinerated Logan at the door. Healing factor came in damn handy. Damn handy. And reminded Hank to find fireproofing materials and slather John's room with it. After a moment, she opened the door and Logan looked down at the young man curled in a corner. No bed, no furniture—John didn't like it. A discarded lighter was on the floor at his feet and he was smoking a cigarette.

In between his fingers was a small ball of dark blue fire. That crap could incinerate anything—when John had come back on, it was at full strength.

"John."

A brief glance from behind blue eyes that didn't show any recognition, before the attention was back on the tiny ball.

"Logan's here. Remember Logan?" Kitty took two brief steps, stopping again, and Logan could see her trying to shift into phasing herself in case of emergency. Logan figured he could probably heal from the worst that kid could do, but Kitty couldn't. After a few more seconds, John began to reshape the fire and Logan watched it become a rose. The blue eyes were less glassy than Logan remembered, narrowing in thought as they studied Kitty, as if she knew the secret to world peace and he wanted to pry it out of her skull bit by bit.

"Yeah. I'm not stupid—Pryde."

A smile then, and Logan watched her kneel, still that careful distance away.

"They found Scott, John—Mr. Summers. He's downstairs, asleep. You remember Scott, John?"

A frown, slashes between the eyebrows that could have meant anything. Logan leaned against the door as Kitty extended a hand that only trembled slightly, and John closed his fingers abruptly, fire dead.

"I—" A stop, then John shifted a little, blue eyes growing distant. "Where's—where's Bobby?"

"He's helping Hank, John." Another pause, and Kitty kept her hand out—God knew it had to take something out of her, every time she reached for contact. "I'll walk you down. It'll all be good, babe, you know? We're gonna get them all out."

A glance at Logan to confirm—how the hell had he become de facto god of the fucking remains of the school?—and he forced himself to nod. Slowly, John took her hand, and Kitty stood up, pulling him to his feet.

"Mr. Summers is okay?"

"He's pretty thin, but he's okay." Another pause, and Logan watched Kitty close her fingers with effort over John's. "Everything is okay, John. It's safe."

"Okay." Logan wasn't sure Allerdyce had a clue what Kitty had said, but he'd bonded to Kitty and Bobby early on, so tended to go with the flow. Standing up, he followed Kitty to the door and Logan, realizing he was probably would have to take Kitty himself, backed out.

The lab was silent; black-market, second-rate medical equipment beeped softly in the background, and Scott was still unconscious on the gurney. Bobby glanced up, smiling to see John walk in, mostly under his own power, and while the kids talked, he wandered over to Hank.

"How is he? Anything to worry about?"

"The suppressives are being cleaned out of his system. Nothing unusual has been found. I suggest that we send him on to Genosha."

"We both know Scooter won't leave without Jean."

Hank nodded briskly, checking the IV attached to Scott's arm.

"Who is next?"

Logan drew in a deep breath.

"I have a rumor."

Hank's head lifted briefly, warm eyes flickering in interest..

"Lensherr sent it through some unusual channels—it looks like we may have found the facility for telepaths."

Hank didn't say anything for a moment, then braced his hands heavily on the bed.

"I'll need at least three days to let Scott recover."

"You'll have that. I got the papers to get you out of the country."

Hank glanced up sharply, then nodded slowly.

"What do you have in mind?"

Logan braced himself against the chair, working the plan over in his head—they'd been marking time for so long, getting a mutant here, a kid there, Logan playing both sides of the field until they had the numbers and the strength to fight back.

Until they had Scott, and Logan knew without a shadow of a doubt they needed him if they were going to do what Logan had wanted to do from the minute he got out of Miami.

"Get the telepaths out of Atlanta."

"You're not going alone." It wasn't a question.

"No, I'm not." Logan glanced back at Allerdyce, who was sitting in the corner, a little star shaped fire hovering in his hand. "You, Kitty, the younger kids are goin'." Thirty in the dorms, curled up together in the defensible corners, and Logan remembered Piotr piling the beds against the door that first night, before they'd sent him on to Genosha so he wouldn't drive himself insane any faster than he was already going. Quickly, he shook his head clear of memory. "St. John and Drake go with me." A glance at the bed. "And I'm bettin' Scott's goin' too. It's alpha class containment—they don't sell the telepaths. We need Scott and Scott needs Jean."

Hank nodded. Wisely didn't ask why they needed a pyrokinetic along, possibly because he knew the answer already. Just like he didn't ask how Logan procured supplies, money, and more mutants. It was policy and it worked between them.

* * *

Three days was three days Scott Summers probably thought were utterly wasted.

"Georgia?" Scott was too thin and it looked like a good wind might bowl him over, but on the other hand, the clipped voice hadn't changed at all. Logan sat on the edge of the stool as Scott leaned forward on the bed, bracing on his elbows enduring Hank's final check with much more patience than any of the three men had probably expected.

The fine cheekbones were etched in stark relief against paper-thin skin, the visor hiding the bruises and sunken shadows of his eyes, and Logan suspected the scarring wouldn't ever heal over his face. The brown head had been shaved close—camp conditions had sucked, even in the experimentation centers—and Logan kept his eyes away from the lines of scar tissue criss-crossing Scott's skull. In the plain khakis Hank had found, he was too damn thin—if he weighed over one twenty soaking wet, Logan would have been surprised. But the thin hands were as restless as always, clenching and unclenching on the sheet as Hank finished removing the IVs and checking the treated injuries for signs of infection.

"That's what we think—can't be sure, which is why I didn't say anything until you got some rest." Logan paused, watching Summers take it in with a cool nod and a thoughtful gaze. Trauma yes—but Scott was all about repression and that was perfectly in line with Logan's theories on psychology. Repress and move the fuck on. They didn't have time for nervous breakdowns anymore. They had plenty of those. Letting out a relieved breath, he resettled himself, giving Scott a slightly smile, quite aware that it would push Scott just to keep up.

"Yeah. You done, Hank?" A soft, resigned sigh, then the large blue mutant nodded, stepping back, and Scott reached for the shirt over the edge of the bed, pulling it over his head, hiding the lines of scars across chest and back that didn't seem to have served any more useful purpose than simply to hurt. "All right. When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow night—I've got clearance to run a little mission for the government." Scott nodded—if anyone understood necessity, it was Scott Summers, right down to his feet. "I don't know about Ororo—"

"She's in Florida now, I think." Scott winced as he finished pulling on the shirt, eyes closed until he could check his glasses were secure. "Last time I saw her, anyway." Something peculiar in his voice that Logan didn't want to know about—he had details of Kitty's experiences, Bobby's, John's. He didn't think he ever needed to know more, ever. He could guess. "All right—we have a layout of the Atlanta complex?"

Logan shook his head slowly, giving Hank a speaking look, and the other man nodded, heading toward the door. A mildly curious expression crossed Scott's face as Hank departed, and the red gaze turned on Logan.

"What?"

"I'm bringing Pyro and Bobby for this one."

A pause.

"You have something in mind."

"They're gonna realize that letting you out was a fuck of a huge mistake—and with any luck, the idiot who let it happen's gonna fry. I wanted to get you outta the country—"

"I'm not leaving." Scott's head went down briefly. "But you're right to bring Allerdyce. How is he?"

If Bobby was there to tell him where to light his pretty fires, it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference whether the kid was fully aware or not. "He'll be fine." Logan paused—had to give Scott the out. "Summers—"

"I'm not leaving until this is over, Logan. Don't even try."

Logan raised a brow in mock surprise.

"You have an idea, Summers?"

Scott shrugged, wincing a little, before circling the bed, leaping up on it with a lightness that was totally at odds with his physical injuries. Shit, he was on willpower alone. Resting his elbows on his knees, he gave Logan a long look.

"What's the difference between winning and stalemate?"

Logan leaned back against the wall.

"Tell me, Scooter."

The visored gaze fixed on the wall just to Logan's right, obviously thinking.

"Just war theory." A pause. "You heard of it?"

"Vaguely."

"I taught it in history to the kids, the month before we left. The criteria of a just war, a very modern concept in history. 'That a war be a last resort to be used only after all other means have been exhausted.'" Scott's voice was hard. "'That a war be clearly an act of redress of rights actually violated or defense against unjust demands backed by the real  
threat of force.'" He seemed somewhere else entirely now. Perhaps in a classroom on a sunny day at the Mansion when it still stood against the New York countryside. "'That war be openly and legally declared by properly constituted governments. That there be a reasonable prospect for victory. That the means be proportionate to the ends. That a war be waged in such a way as to distinguish between combatants and noncombatants. That the victorious nation not require the utter humiliation of the vanquished.'" Something in Scott's face forbore comment. Something that Logan had hoped to God to see, hoped for so long that he sometimes wondered if that was all he was running on anymore, hope.

"We're at war, Logan."

A pause, and Scott shook himself, mouth tightening.

"Summers—"

"The difference between winning and a stalemate is simple—we had a stalemate for too long, held them off using all the legal ways. Xavier said humankind and mutantkind could live together. He was wrong—we can't. This time, we fight, and we're going to win." The sharp gaze was fixed on Logan now, as if he expected disagreement, and Logan forced himself not to shift under that intense gaze. "I need information—what Magneto has in Genosha, we'll need him. How fast we can mobilize and take down the camps—alpha priority, beta and gamma secondary." A pause, and Scott breathed out, sliding off the bed. "Tomorrow night, we get Jean out."

Logan grinned a little—and it rushed through him. Not just hope, but tangible reality, something he'd tuned out for so long. With a grin he straightened against the wall.

"Whatever you say, Scooter."

Sharp gaze.

"Will you follow orders?"

It was three years ago and he and Scott were looking at each other for the first time. It was the moment outside the Mansion when he'd watched Scott try to bring together the tattered remains of the X-Men and Logan hadn't even known he was one until he'd turned up for duty that next morning, the remains of lead from the pencils staining his fingers. It was two year ago and he was watching Scott holding Jubilee when Logan had left to take the first group into Canada. The last time Logan saw Jubilee alive.

It was the moment they watched Xavier die in that first hellhole and he'd seen the shattered remains of Scott's hope die, utterly and completely, and it was the moment that Logan knew, without a doubt, he would have given anything to go back two years and drag Scott and Jean into that car heading for Canada.

"Give me an order and we'll see."

The red gaze fixed on Logan with more intensity than he could ever remember seeing.

"First, a teaching example. Raze Atlanta to the ground."

Logan couldn't help it then, couldn't stop the sheer relief that rushed through him, because this was going to work, and he'd have a target.

For Xavier, and Kurt and Kitty, Scott and Ororo, for everyone he'd lost or watched destroyed.

For Jubilee, who he'd promised he'd come back for. His last failure.

For the girl he hadn't known. He had the chance to do it for her, finally meet the debt of that long-ago broken promise.

For Rogue. And more importantly, for Marie.

"You got it."


	7. Collateral Damage

_"Means are ends in the making. Where the means are bad, there can be no good end."_   
_—Mahatma Gandhi_

* * *

Scott surprised me the next morning by appearing at our breakfast table, where I'd taken up a quietly unobtrusive seat in Logan's shadow, trying to eat my eggs in peace. That I knew all eyes were fixed on me was an understatement—I was as aware of them as I was the color of my shirt (blue, by the way) and the fact I was gloved and people wondered about that still. As if they had nothing better to do with their time.

Logan's presence, however, discouraged others from approaching, and I supported that wholeheartedly. Even Bobby—hell, most _especially_ Bobby. I couldn't take another sad, disappointed glance.

After getting home the night before, exhausted and practically floating in the door of the apartment, I'd gone almost straight to sleep, stretched out on the couch with dinner half-finished on the plate in front of me. No time to think of ways to see Polaris or figure out how on earth I could use the knowledge that St. John and Hank weren't alone in their opposition to the Polaris project. Bringing the two groups together seemed theoretically a good idea—but every time the thought popped into my head, I shrugged it aside.

Inner Logan agreed and interrupted my egg-eating as I turned the idea over in my mind for the umpteenth time.

_—You don't know enough about what's going on here, darlin'.—_

No shit, Sherlock. I was lucky to figure out who I could trust. If that.

_—It's just....—_

_—Not worth the risk, Marie.—_

"Cyke's on his way, baby," Logan murmured as he speared a sausage with beautiful unconcern. I lifted my head just in time to see The Fearless Leader drop into the chair across from us, a friendly grin spreading his lips and suspicion written into every line of his body. I pasted on a smile, checked the fit, and threw it at him with all the casual charm I could muster. Hey, Fearless Leader, here I am, corrupting your favorite henchman. Nice to see you again.

He might not have gotten the humor of the situation. Frankly, I was pretty iffy on it myself.

"Noticed you weren't at the main table." A slight jerk of his head toward the seated X-Gods and Logan nodded agreeably, still focused on breakfast—he was one of those happy people for whom appetite was never diminished by outer or inner turmoil. I admired him for that. Unfortunately, that was one specific characteristic he'd never managed to pass on to me, no matter how many times we'd touched.

_—It's food, baby. Don't see the issue.—_Inner Logan had often wondered about my connection between emotional equilibrium and hunger as well, and I pushed my eggs around on my plate and concentrated on the outer world. Inner convos directly in front of the Leader just didn't seem like the brightest idea, especially when the Leader was on the suspicious side.

"I need you on campus today," Scott said, and I kept my eyes trained on my eggs, piling the sausage links like little logs on the edge of the plate and forking an egg piece on top. Aesthetically pleasing, yellow on brown. "You too, Marie." Huh? I jerked my gaze up, but Scott's gaze was fixed on Logan, not me.

Logan was looking back and a thousand questions flashed through his eyes that I wanted answers to as badly as he did.

"Why do you need Marie?"

"St. John wants to run her through a few more simulations. She's already worked with the beta team, so she might as well get familiar with procedure." A slight glance at me now, amused indulgence rich in his voice. My Logan would have broken his jaw for that alone. This Logan just raised an eyebrow. "Her evaulations were good, Logan. It'll just be a few hours. I think she can leave your sight for that long."

Hmm...so it was that obvious. I tried not to flush, thanks to Logan now perfectly aware of the reason for all those glances in my direction so often. Everyone thought we were—well, we were a 'we'.

And it wasn't exactly an idea I was fighting too hard either, and not just because of convenience. My fantasy life had scenes like this one, though usually he ate the food directly off my stomach and put the syrup to creative uses not mentioned on the bottle. Spearing an egg, I nodded and glanced up as someone took an empty plate away—a girl, though all I saw was a cropped blonde head and a flash of blue at her wrist when she reached by me. I'd automatically pulled a little toward Logan to allow her to get to the the plate, and blinking, I wondered when I stopped noticing things around me like that.

Or rather, stopped noticing the norms. How odd.

"You done, baby?" I jerked my gaze up, now aware of two sets of eyes fixed on me, and swallowed the egg hastily, pushing aside the uncomfortable thoughts. No need to worry about it now.

"Sure." I half rose and Logan and Scott followed—old gentleman conditioning. In Scott, it was a perfectly understandable part of his oh-so-anal-retentive nature. In Logan, it was relics of a completely different life and time, and it never ceased to fascinate me when that conditioning took effect. His gloved hand rested on the back of my neck as he and Scott exchanged a few more words that I wasn't really listening to as our plates were cleared. Looking around idly, I saw Bobby and Kitty at the far table—not that either was looking at me, but there was a turn to Bobby's mouth and stiffness to the wide shoulders that told me he was very aware I was there.

"Marie? You ready?"

I nodded, swallowing in a dry throat as we walked with Scott toward the door. The interested gazes of the mutant population were fixed with rapt attention on us again. I was't being paranoid.

_—It is paranoia, and it's rather cute, Rogue.— _Carol's snicker filled my head. I tried to tune her out. To my own surprise, it worked. I was getting better at it.

"So when is Erik arriving?"

I blinked, focusing on Logan's voice. Information. Always good.

"He'll be back this week with Polaris. Jean should have everything ready by Friday." There was a tightness to Scott's mouth that didn't bode well. His next words told me why. "Hank was in town. Have you—"

"He left, Scooter." The hand on my neck tightened in warning—what, did Logan think I was going to blurt out everything? Please. "Awhile back. He's not going to help, you know that. So I don't see why you're still tryin'. Just give it up, let him live his life."

Scott didn't answer, but the sharp gaze rested on me, as if my presence alone was responsible for Hank's intransigent devotion to wanting norms equal. I kept my blank expression carefully in place. After a few more words between them, Logan led me outside, and I took a long breath as he pushed me gently onto a bench.

The air tasted cleaner than inside, or it could have been the fact I was no longer bracing under the pressure of all those eyes and all that speculation. Straightening, I looked around the garden and had to smile a little.

It was gorgeous weather—all pretty bright-sunlight, perfect-for-family-picnics, let's-play-a-pick-up-game-of-football sort of day that I'd looked forward to at home. Not too hot, not too windy, let's get a kite and have some serious fun in long sleeves without sweating to death. I could feel Logan gazing at me in an almost smothering worry, and that seemed normal too.

"He has good instincts. Try not to look so guilty."

I frowned up at him, and most especially at the sensible advice he gave. Scott had always had a nice paranoid streak running through him, but in my world, it'd been rigidly contained. The only thing that surprised me now after days of observation was that he hadn't ordered me into the sublevels and let Jean and Betsy double-team me until he got some answers.

That I was walking free sure as hell showed where Logan stood in the Trust Hierarchy. He'd gut me if I was a threat, and that's all Scott needed to know.

"I'm trying to look neutral." I'd seen him gut a deer once, during survival training with me, Kitty, and Paige. Paige had taken it pretty coolly with a slight moue of distaste, Kitty had vomited into the bushes, and I'd watched with unwilling fascination, my fingers flexing in time with his as if claws would protrude if I only got the right muscle combinations to work. It'd been one of those rare moments we'd been in such perfect rapport we actually twitched in unison when Kitty's noises from behind the bushes reached us.

He could mutter whatever he wanted about feeling vaguely parental about me, but the truth was, and a part of him knew it, that you didn't get our level of sexual tension from random Jacosta complexes. Those moments he would never admit to were all the proof he needed. Both of us got off on violence and we liked it better together than apart. Being X-Men, in retrospect, could be considered our version of safe sex.

"There's no such thing here. Either for us or against us." A shrug as he lowered himself down beside me, glancing around automatically, checking for surveillance or people too close. I wondered a little vaguely who would possibly have the nerve to follow Logan around. He was twitchy at the best of times—I'd bet money no one walked up behind him for any reason without _a lot_ of advance warning, olfactory superiority or not.

"You draw the lines that sharp?"

"Yeah, we do." A pause, before he tilted my chin up. "Hank'll figure something out."

I could lose myself in eyes that utterly sincere. It was nice to know I had the same effect on him, as the gaze lingered longer than necessary and the thumb on my chin unconsciously stroked my skin.

"I can't stay here much longer," I said finally, and it frightened me when he didn't disagree. "They're gonna push one day. I can't—"

"If it fails with Polaris, it won't matter, baby."

"Sure it will. I don't think anyone would take the resurrection of Rogue well." Especially when they'd fucked around so beautifully with her legend.

Logan's shrug beside me was telling.

"Don't worry about it. We'll think of something."

I didn't want to have to think of something. Lifting my head, I gazed around the garden and took in the smells of flowers in bloom. It was home in a way that was starting to make me more comfortable than I should be, and I suddenly missed the rampant cases of deja vu I'd experienced those first days. I shouldn't be comfortable here.

"You don't have to hover, you know. I'm fine on my own." Show that independent streak, Marie-baby. There we go.

"You want me to leave?"

Slightly surprised, a little intrigued. This Logan wasn't as familiar with Rogue, she who needed no one and nothing—or did a kick-ass imitation, anyway. No, I didn't want him to leave—what I wanted was for both of us to leave and let me hide on his sofa under a blanket with a good book until Hank returned with a miraculous solution. Failing that, I wanted to duck quietly into his shadow and hope no one noticed me.

Funny world, this was.

"No—but I don't want you to—you know, feel obligated to hold my hand through this, you know?" I'd never wanted his obligation, though God knew, I'd gotten it, full measure. Logan took duty seriously. Very seriously. Obsessively, some might say. And while I'd never _wanted_ it, in this world or mine, I'd never been one to look at gift horse in the mouth and check out the dental issues within. When someone takes up seventy four percent (and I'd done the calculations, so I knew) of your fantasy life, you took what you could get, no matter what form they came in, no matter the condition of the teeth.

"No problem." Of course not—this was something intrinsic to him. Jean had once hypothesized that he had the single most active paternal instincts ever found in a single male. I'd have to agree—it jumpstarted him into fatherhood without a single child of his blood, just the children of his heart and soul and choice. Me and Remy, Kit and Jubes to a lesser extent. The kids of the Mansion, who always knew who was most likely to let them off easy when they broke curfew, or ignore the beer parties in the boys' dorms, who would growl in frustration but still pick them up from clubs at two in the morning if they overindulged and couldn't drive. Bitch them out in colorful language, though, but that was sort of entertaining and certainly gave us all an education in selective profanity.

We had Logan's cell phone memorized and his private extension in the Mansion on speed dial. He belonged to me, to us, in ways he'd never belonged to the X-Men themselves, even Jean.

"I've been reading," I told him, dismissing the thoughts completely, and the hazel eyes fixed on me in interest. "About the war—about what you went through, all of you. I'm sorry." The memories from Kitty I just kept under wraps. No need to advertise my unauthorized use of powers on an X-Man.

An eyebrow cocked and I shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

"For—for some of the things I said. You—you were right, you know." When we fought, before I knew he wasn't genocidal, merely insular. I'd hit him with words that probably still slithered about in his mind, and even if I'd been right—somehow, it wasn't fair to do that to him. I owed both Logans far too much to do that. "I wasn't here—I can't understand what you went through."

Another shrug, but I sensed the tension under it.

"Sometimes," he said, and it surprised me, since I didn't expect a response. "Sometimes, I was glad you didn't live to see it." He paused. "We lost a lot of people."

Xavier. Jubilee.

"I'm sorry about Jubilee," I said, and received confirmation when every muscle in the body beside me tensed, completely reflexive, utterly unconscious. Damning as all hell. "Kitty—" Don't tell him about the absorption. Don't know how he'd take that. "I heard that you—you and she were close."

The hazel eyes refused to meet mine and something in me twisted abruptly—I hadn't really thought about it before, but it occurred to me to wonder....

"She died early on," he said shortly. "I got Kitty out, but I was too late for her."

He got a lot of people out. Kitty, Scott, St. John, Bobby. Questions floated to the surface of my mind even as I began to seek out Kitty's memories—vague impressions of a birthday party before the war and Logan disgusted when Jubilee threw cake at him, long nights downstairs in front of the television watching registration becoming inevitable and Logan telling them they'd be fine. Graduation gowns and Logan scooping Jubes up and throwing her over his shoulder while she laughed and beat at his back while Scott fell against the punch bowl laughing and Jean snapped pictures.

How strange, that I could superimpose the memories of Rogue over those and get such a perfect match. My breath caught a little and I felt Logan's sudden gaze at me when my scent changed. I wondered if I smelled like jealousy.

"I'm going to go look for St. John," I said suddenly, getting to my feet, trying with movement to wash away the memories. "I'll see you later, okay? Bye."

He didn't follow me. And you know, in my world, he would have.

* * *

"Where's St. John?" I asked of the first person I saw. Vaguely, I recognized her—green eyes, Sarah, that was the one. She skittered to a stop, turning so quickly she almost dropped the grocery bag she was carrying, and winced back when I took a step forward. Shit, I hated when people winced like that. What the hell did she think I was gonna do to her?

"St. John?"

"Yes." I answered, a little sharply. "Have you seen him this morning?"

She pushed her hair back from her face nervously, and I almost growled. The second wince was just icing—I wasn't going to hurt her, for God's sake.

"Never mind. I'll find him myself. Go—do whatever you were doing."

A quick bob of her head and she took off in the direction of the kitchen while I made for the stairs. Try his room, then do some interrogation. That'd work.

Bobby was absent (probably still eating) when St. John crankily answered my knock on his door, and he let me in without much in the way of conversation as I snatched the collar out of my pocket and thought about putting it on.

"Something wrong, R—Marie?" he said sleepily and I almost kicked him as I dropped onto his bed.

"Be careful." I snapped, suddenly worried. "Marie."

St. John nodded, still not fully awake, and shut the door, turning the lock automatically before brushing a hand through his short hair and glancing briefly at the collar clenched in my hands.

"You like that thing?"

Considering what I knew of his experiences with it, I understood his question.

"It keeps others safe." I paused to let him go in the bathroom—St. John Allerdyce was useless before brushing his teeth, a habit he'd picked up from Bobby. Shower too—I heard the water come on and lay back on his bed, curling my legs up beneath the discarded covers and staring up at the ceiling.

If I got obsessive about the relationship between Jubilee and Logan, I'd scream. That was all there was to it. I didn't need to worry about this—I had more to worry about than a past that was irrelevant to me and with so many other far more pressing issues. Would Hank find a way to get me home? Would Scott get more suspicious and send Jean after me? Would Magneto figure out who I was? Would the Polaris Project go on as scheduled?

Had Logan replaced me with Jubilee?

Fuck. So irrelevant. I rolled onto my stomach and was glad to see St. John had a nice, large, firm, fluffy pillow. Because I wanted something to hit.

Ten minutes later, St. John walked out of the shower and his pillow had lost something in the way of fluffiness.

"I see you're feeling good this morning, babe." His eyes arrowed on the pillow in thought. Dressed in nothing but a towel, he crossed to the closet, pulling open the door. He was smirking. Narrowing my eyes, I considered my options.

"You know I almost had sex with you once in my world?" I told him, and he dropped both towel and t-shirt. Amused, I averted my gaze and fixed it on the door while he dressed with jerky motions I could see from the corner of my eye.

"That's nice." Pretty good attempt at normal conversation mode. I was impressed. "Why almost?" He emerged into my line of sight in jeans, pulling the t-shirt over his damp blonde head. I hid a grin.

"Let's say your interest in me was purely—proxy."

"Oh." Slightly amused, more than a little surprised, shades of embarrassment. Pure St. John, and he flashed me an uncertain smile. "That's—weird."

"Yeah," I answered easily and rolled on my side, giving him a long look. "Why aren't you and Bobby—you know—here?"

A shrug as he settled the shirt at his waist and went hunting for his socks in the dresser. "No reason—never came up. Not since high school, anyway, and after Cecy died—"

"Cecy?" I'd heard that name before.

St. John turned with tube socks in hand, crawling across the carpet to dig under his bed. He didn't have a habit of putting his shoes in the closet.

"Bobby's fiancée. Met her our first semester in college—before we were discovered." Johnny shrugged again. "She died in the camps for being a—collaborator. Or fucking the enemy, so to speak. I suppose when her parents turned in me and Bobby, they didn't expect her to be arrested with us, for sleeping with a known mutant."

I shivered a little—he could say it so casually, and I wasn't used to that yet.

"I'm sorry."

"So was Bobby." He came up for air with one shoe clutched in his hand, a frown creasing his face. The other shoe was being recalcitrant, apparently. "They were engaged—God, I swear, they decided on the second date." A strangely nostalgic smile curved Johnny's lips and he sat back on his heels briefly, head tilting. "She was a carrier of the X-gene, not a mutant herself though. She was targeted as much for that as for her relationship." Johnny ducked back under the bed again. Emerging with the second shoe, he gave me a long look. "Her mother and both her sisters were taken too. Even though her father was FoH."

I thought about that, my mind turning over the implications.

"That's odd."

"FoH required gene tests after that to join the party."

Whoa. I sat up straight.

"They became a _political party_?" And didn't that just spook me in ways I didn't want to be spooked? Dearest God. Not good.

Johnny's eyebrows arched briefly in confusion, before he belatedly remembered who I was.

"Yeah. Got a full Congress and a President elected. Problem was, a third of them ended up having mutant family members. Lots agreed to sterilization to assure that their possibly corrupt genes didn't continue." Another smile that could have doubled for an animal's bared teeth. "Very interesting, how many suddenly turned up without families—sent them abroad. 'Specially their daughters—required sterilization on the kids who came back with a x in their chromosomes. We won't even cover the latents who didn't even know they _were_ gamma class and found out at the ripe old age of fifty that their neat ability to always convince people with their speeches and their excellent luck in poker was low-grade psi ability."

I'd never thought of that and pondered the implications.

"What's the requirement to be considered mutant?"

"Good question. Magneto makes the rules—he's partial to alpha/beta class." A shrug. "The way we wiped through the human gene population—norms outnumber us, but you know, most mutant kids come from norm parents. And some breed true every time; those have special privileges, a weird sort of second class citizenship, like Sam's family. Work visas, can operate heavy machinery without supervision, less restrictions on travel." Viciously sarcastic. "It's the ones who started executing their own kids that Mags targets—those and the collaborators. Mutant or not."

I could see that.

"So what do you need, babe?"

I wondered if he'd know anything about Jubilee and Logan and dismissed it from my mind.

"Scott said you were running me through sims this afternoon."

St. John blinked, considering my statement from all angles.

"Yeah, I mentioned to Scott I needed to—I guess he forgot to tell me." A shake of his head. "Weird. He usually doesn't forget stuff like that."

"Probably meant to tell you this morning." Before I saw you, so I wouldn't know he was deliberately separating me and Logan. I wondered why, but St. John sat down on the bed beside me and the blue eyes looked into mine. In their depths were so many questions—I knew what he'd ask before he said it, before the blue eyes left mine and fixed on the far wall.

"Me and Bobby—you asked about that. Is it—different? I mean—"

"You and Bobby graduated from USC; you teach journalism at the school and freelance for a few magazines. You've been together for over two years," I said softly, and I heard his breath catch. I could tell him this. It wouldn't hurt anyone. "After Bobby broke up with me, you took him to Malta for awhile. When you got back, I was with Remy and Bobby was—I don't know. Weird about it. And then—well, something happened, I don't know what, but you got together." I smiled a little. "You're happy, I'll tell you that."

St. John grinned a little, something lighting up his eyes.

"You know Remy and 'Ro—"

"Yeah." I almost sighed to myself. "Remy and I broke it off after what happened with Carol—it was hard for him. I made it hard, and I couldn't—" Couldn't stand to be touched, to be near anyone I could ever hurt again. Remy got angry about it—Logan just pushed me until I gave up trying to keep him away. I remembered them fighting outside the Mansion, when they thought I couldn't hear, remembered Logan ripping into Remy for abandoning me. Logan never quite understood I'd abandoned Remy a long time before. "He and 'Ro have been pretty good friends since Logan first brought him home. I think they're developing into more." Another sigh, and I flicked a finger over the blanket—it was strange, that it didn't hurt to think about anymore. It once had. "Surprise, surprise."

His hand was gentle on my shoulder.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

A pause, longer, before he spoke again, and my luck should have figured out where he'd go.

"Is the—are the Professor and Jubilee—"

He felt my wince and drew back in surprise.

"She's fine," I said, fixing my eyes on the far wall. "Everyone is. Everyone, you know, is fine. Mostly." Leave out random episodes of mutant violence and sundry, and I turned my head a little, knowing my face would show too much.

"You and Logan in your world—you were very close."

_—He's a quick one. Told you, honey.—_

_—Shut the fuck up, Carol, before I decide to figure out a way to burn you outta my mind.—_

Her laugh was malicious—Xavier and I had discussed the option early on, but the sheer difficulty of rooting through my mind and removing Carol neuron by neuron and memory by memory was a task fit for perhaps _six _telepaths of Xavier's caliber, not just one. And the dangers of losing my own memories, my own self—in balance, the risks were too great. At least in Xavier's opinion.

But rethinking the situation...

"Yes," I mumbled, wondering how I could change the subject.

"It was hard for him—after you died." I looked up. "He stayed at the school—Jean thought it was because of the girls, you know? He saw you in all of them."

I had to find some level of amusement in the fact that Logan couldn't even escape me when I was dead.

"It's no biggie," I said, seeing him ready to say something else. "Do you think you can see Polaris when she gets back?"

St. John shrugged.

"She's with Lensherr—never leaves his sight. I'll try, but—" he shrugged meaningfully, and I understood, at least a little. People with martyr-complexes didn't want to be saved.

"Makes sense." Magneto was good at what he did—he'd learned from that unfortunate incident with me, I had to guess. Twisting short blonde hair through my fingers, I gave the room a cool once-over before finally turning to face Johnny.

"Scott's suspicious."

"Scott is the epitome of paranoid. He doesn't like how you've shown up so close to the execution of the Polaris Project."

"He doesn't believe in it, you know." Usually, I didn't think before I spoke—this was one of those times. St. John leaped on the words before they'd finished finding space in the air to hang meaningfully, grabbing my shoulders and spinning me around.

"Where'd you get that idea?"

It seemed sensible, on the surface, to start spilling—but I bit my tongue and shook my head. I didn't want to trust my instinct to tell him. I couldn't pretend to understand everything that was going on, and even if Scott wasn't a cheerleader for the project, it didn't mean that he would actually bring it to a screeching halt either. In fact, I'd guess from what Logan said, they weren't going to do anything yet. They'd learned the rules of sacrifice and ethical compromise far too well.

"Just—observation." The intense gaze wasn't lessening and I wondered if this Johnny could read when I lied as easily as the other one. For a second, I thought he could, but he let me, go, sitting back to stare at the far wall with an intense expression. "Johnny—"

"Sorry." His face turned down, hiding his expression from sight. "You wanna go look at the sim programs now?"

With a quick nod, I stood up, glad to end the uncomfortable moment with some action. But I did notice that St. John's eyes didn't meet mine for the rest of the morning.

* * *

The basic rules of a successful infiltrator—or whatever I qualified as—included avoiding those who are a threat to you. Say, paranoid Fearless Leaders who seemed to be _way_ too interested in your existence for anyone's peace of mind.

I blamed it on being tired. Johnny had run me through sims before and after lunch, and a late afternoon snack hadn't done much more than add to my general state of exhaustion. I wanted to curl up on a rug in some sunlight and forget the world existed.

I wanted a nap.

The back porch, in retrospect, probably wasn't the best place to hang out, though technically, late afternoon really _was_ a good time for semi-privacy there. Kitty was in her room with a few other mutant girls, including Betsy, and Johnny had wandered off to find Bobby. The X-Men were training or planning things in the sublevels, and most of the others seemed to have left early in the day for whatever it was they did off-campus.

It was blessedly quiet, a tiny shaded corner with a wicker loveseat and a nice view. Freshly showered and redressed in a school t-shirt and sweats, a clean pair of gloves covering my arms, I fell into its cushioned depths in a frenzy of sheer relief and shut my eyes.

"Marie. I didn't expect to see you out here."

I opened one eye and got a sideways view of Scott through the curtain of my hair, leaning up against one of the porch supports. Automatic reflex wanted to drag me straight upright, but even my reflexes were tired. They compromised by letting me lift my head a little.

Meeting the clear gaze behind the red glasses, I decided he was lying. He'd expected to find me. Because he'd been looking for me.

"Hey, sir—Scott." Slowly, I levered myself up on one arm. Without asking, he crossed the porch, dropping carelessly into the chair across from me with all the grace of a cat and twice the suspicion. Very Scott. Pushing myself fully upright, I tried to clear my foggy head enough to figure out what he wanted. Bye-bye, nap. The very thought made me even more tired.

"Johnny sent your sim reports to my office." Oh? "You're really quite good. Where were you trained?"

Well, see, that was a good question. Where _had_ I trained?

_—Prevaricate.—_ Carol's hiss was soft.

"Different people taught me different things," I answered evasively. "It wasn't safe being alone and not know how to get outta a situation, you know?"

"Yes, I do."

The thing about Scott, the overriding decider of his personality, was his control. He liked control. Perhaps the term "control-freak" wouldn't be too harsh. It had manifested itself in a thousand ways at home—his obsession with detail, his famously cold temper, self-confidence that could be easily mistaken for arrogance. He had to control everything, even himself.

And his team. God help you if you were on his team.

To put it in a personal perspective, if Logan had been the overprotective older brother that growled at my dates, Scott was the one that interrogated them. Got their name, social security number, driver's license, family history, criminal record, and at least three reference numbers. Logan would make sure they knew he'd kill them—Scott just let them know that he'd make sure Logan knew where to _find_ them.

It was something of an accomplishment, in retrospect, that I ever lost my virginity.

It wasn't just me, though—Jubes, Kitty, Paige, all of us were victims of Scott's need for control. And fighting it was like fighting a cold—cute to try, but you just have to let it happen and deal with it. In all honesty, while Scott approved of Remy far less than Logan did, Remy had a point in his favor because he lived at the Mansion and therefore was always under Scott's eye. And while he had a very nice criminal background, nothing had ever gotten through even a grand jury, and when he became an X-Man, he had another point in his favor.

Sitting back against the cushioned wicker, I knew exactly what this was about. This wasn't Leader Scott looking at a possible infiltrator right now; this was Brother Scott interviewing Logan's lover. Dear God. Dear, dear God. I didn't know whether to laugh hysterically or just acknowledge completely that this could _not _be a very complex hallucination, because even my wildest flights of fancy had _never_ included Scott interviewing Logan's lover out of a concern for her intentions.

"Is there anything in particular you want to talk about, Scott?" I asked, trying to keep the smile from fighting its way across my face. Would he ask for references? Proof of citizenship? My future plans? Sexual history? Blinking, I tried to think of how on earth Scott was going to go about this subtly.

"Logan."

Okay, so not subtle.

"Oh," I answered weakly. Clean and neat in jeans and a maroon short sleeve shirt that did good things with his complexion, Scott was the very epitome of Mutant All-American Male. Concerned Mutant All-American Male. Geez. "Umm—"

"I'm not going to ask you personal questions about your relationship," Scott said calmly, crossing an ankle over his knee and apparently settling down for Serious Inquiry Time while flashing a thousand watt smile. Many dates had relaxed when they saw that.

They'd learned differently. Real damn quick.

"I'd rather not—"

"What made you decide to come to New York?"

I wished I'd gotten some coffee from the kitchen. My muscles were screaming things about pain and exhaustion and my brain couldn't quite manage to sort out those messages from my desperate inquiries of what to do about the situation.

"I was tired of being alone."

_—Carol? Carol? Get up, get out here, help me out. And tell me this isn't actually happening. Scott is NOT about to give me the third degree about me and Logan.—_

Carol only laughed and sat back to enjoy the show. Inner Logan, however, did not.

_—Your call, baby. You wanna play this way, you gotta deal.—_

That rat-bastard.

_—Your alter-ego got me INTO this mess!—_

_—Noticed that.—_ Okay, that was strange. Logan hadn't exactly been enthusiastic about this little masquerade, but the resentment in his voice was above and beyond that. No, not resentment. It was something else. And damned if I had time to figure out what.

"How did you know Logan was imprisoned with your sister?"

I blinked, jerking back into reality. Crap. Well, I'd said it, and I had to have a reason for it. Okay, logic. How would I—

"Another former prisoner, when I got out." Whew. Elaborate? No, that looked guilty. Well, did it look guilty anyway? Shit if I knew.

"Oh?"

"Yeah." I wasn't sweating. I wasn't tense. Forcing my mishandled body under strict control, I lowered myself back down as casually as I could, as if I had people asking me questions every day. I knew Scott. Sort of. "I—I didn't know she was dead, so I asked around. And that one—he—told me that she'd been with Logan in—" Where had Logan been imprisoned? Miami? Boston? Daytona? Palm Beach? Chicago? I should _know_ this stuff. "—the camp. And that she'd died."

Scott nodded slowly and I tried not to blow out a breath in relief.

"So you never met him before you came here?"

Was Scott insinuating I was a slut? Okay, practically speaking, running off-campus to move in with a guy the first time I met him _might_ be a little _risque_, but hey, it was the new millennium and all that. Maybe I was just _really_ decisive.

"No."

"Hmmm." Scott crossed his arms neatly over his chest. "From what Logan said, I thought you'd met before."

_—Okay, darlin', this ain't good.—_

The rat-bastard was back, but he might help. I took a breath, keeping my quizzical smile firmly pasted across my face. I hoped it didn't look as fake as it felt.

_—I think he's fishing.—_

_—No shit, Marie. Keep calm. I don't think he knows anything.—_

_—You think?—_

Logan had always been obsessively private about his relationships, that much was true. I met the lucky chicks when I couldn't avoid them, but the X-Team did _not_; at least, not until what's-her-name that I had _really_ disliked just on principle. Anyone Logan had around more than three months was just _not_ going to be on my top ten list. But anyway, Logan was private.

To reiterate to myself, the two Logans had the same basic personality. I just couldn't see even this close Scott-Logan friendship descending into private confidences like an alternate universe episode of "Sex and the City".

"Not before I got here." Casual. Oh so casual. Look how very unworried I am, Fearless Leader, I'm stretching my legs in complete unconcern, and not only because they are trying to cramp up. "He had information I didn't."

"Ah. I'm glad you got the information you wanted." He didn't sound glad. Abruptly, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and fixing all that dark red gaze on me with an intensity that made me stiffen. "I was surprised to learn of Logan's and your relationship." Somehow, he made relationship sound like 'sex scandal' or 'poisoned dinner'. I was metaphorically rocked back on my heels—but it was still cute as hell, no way around it, that for once, it was me being the suspected party. Me, being the one that couldn't be trusted. "Are you planning to stay long?"

Oh, was _that_ a loaded question. 'No, I'm trying to get the hell off this alternate timeline and get home Real Soon Now, but thanks for asking?' Scott was actually testing my commitment—he wanted to know if I was going to lead Logan on and then cut and run. At another time, in another place, without so damn much riding on this moment, this entire conversation would have been desperately touching, a true Mutant Hallmark moment. Just, you know, not now.

"I'll be here for awhile," I answered, weighing each word. "It's—nice." Me and nice. I had to upgrade my vocabulary

Scott smiled—a pretty smile, the smile you give right before you say something that could be unforgivable, but that 'oh-shucks' smile is supposed to make it all better. It worked too—Scott was the past master of being able to state in bald terms what would be insulting under any other circumstances and manage to look justifiably hurt when you retaliated.

"Logan and I have been friends for a long time, Marie," Scott said. "I won't pretend I'm not worried about his relationship with you." Heh. Scott worried about Logan. God, I had to remember this. SUCH a cool anecdote. "He's had a difficult time since the war. I hope you understand that."

"We've all had difficult times, sir."

He frowned at the honorific but didn't comment.

"Marie, has he talked to you about Jubilee?"

Something in me froze just a little, and I found myself leaning forward without meaning to and earning a screech from my back.

Jubilee.

"No," I answered, watching his face carefully. Scott was too good at controlling his expression—but the slightest tension in the set of his jaw gave it all away. He didn't like this.

"She and Logan were extremely close, Marie. She was killed in the Daytona camp the first year of the war" A pause. "Logan couldn't locate her in time to buy her freedom. He recovered her body after the war and brought her here. So he could stay close to her."

I bit into my lip.

"Oh?"

Scott's head tilted a little, and his body reflected nothing but tired acceptance and remembered pain.

"When she died—" Scott paused, and it dawned on me—I didn't want to hear more. I really didn't. Getting to my feet, ignoring the scream of my muscles, I gave Scott a quick smile. I knew it was bad and almost didn't care.

"Thanks for telling me, sir." Gotta go, gotta run, gotta get out of here. That's what Johnny meant about the tags being with a dead girl—they were buried with Jubilee. All the evidence, and as usual I didn't pay a damn bit of attention. I should have known this, should have guessed this part. Of course, Jubilee. They'd been damn good friends on my world too. "I gotta run—get something to eat." I doubted I'd ever eat again. "Thanks for the heads-up, Cyke. I'll see you later."

Before he could say another word, and very much aware how very silly I looked, I took off for the door, pushing the screen back and plunging into the cool air-conditioned darkness of the Mansion kitchen. My eyes weren't adjusted to the interior lights yet, but a quick glance around the room confirmed that I was alone. For a frightened second, I worried that Scott would follow me when his footsteps sounded on the porch, but they trotted down the stairs and away. He'd made his point, I guessed.

Leaning into the door briefly, I tried to shut out the myriad thoughts floating in my head. Jubilee. Made sense, of course—the reason he stayed at the Mansion after the war, the reason he became a true member of the X-Men. It made perfect sense. And why was I jealous, anyway?

_—Marie?—_

I bit into my lip. I wasn't just jealous. I felt betrayed. I'd been replaced.

* * *

The X-Men had some sort of meeting, which kept us on campus later than I really wanted to be. Worse, it kept me intensely unoccupied. The sublevels were sealed off to all non-team members and everyone I knew even vaguely was planning more nefarious crimes against humanity.

Or hell, maybe they were just negotiating next week's menu. How would I know?

Angry at myself, I paced most of campus, keeping my distance from the other mutants. I caught a glimpse of young Lucas and his buddies in the distance and did my best to stay out of his way. I still wanted to hurt him, just on principle, so deliberately meeting up with him could be considered premeditated assault. The thought appealed to me far too much to trust myself near him.

Retreating to the far side of the soccer field as more kids came outside to enjoy the warmth of early evening, I found a comfortable tree and sat down against it, clutching my coat and the bag Logan had given me to carry my weapons around in, turned so I could keep a eye on both the foresty area to my left and the clean sweep of the grounds to my right. Never hurts to be prepared.

It was beyond surreal to know I was packing enough firepower to take over a good size building and take hostages. I was Rogue, she who needed no weapons, she who was invulnerable to all weapons. She who—well, okay, so not invulnerable to the really uncool little red ray guns that the current Somewhat Bad Guys were sporting, but still. Mostly invulnerable. I belonged to a gun control lobby, for goodness sake. I voted Democrat. That I was packing was just a little too much to really absorb.

I didn't even try to justify the fact that I was pretty damn good with them, either.

_—You okay, Marie?—_

I sighed and leaned my head into the bark of the tree, feeling Logan fill my head.

_—Aren't you still mad about my little pretend, sugar?—_

I felt a strange wave of emotional struggle before he finally answered.

_—You do what you have to.— _His voice was grudging, but at least no longer pissed. I was going to have to figure him out one day. —_I understand practicality.—_

Yeah, he should. Idly, I opened the zipper of the bag and looked down at the gun.

_—Logan, when did I learn to use a Glock? Three days ago, I was doing good to identify them. But it felt—familiar—to hold one. Down in the ghetto. That's not me, but it doesn't feel completely different either, like some of the stuff from you and Carol.—_

_—Probably this Logan passed it with the touch, baby.—_

I would never understand my mutation. Never. This New and Very Different Logan seemed to have left only the barest trace in my mind—vague, unfinished scenes that I couldn't quite put together. From Kitty, I'd gotten considerably more—but then, Kitty had held on longer before I could knock her away. My Logan was still quite vivid despite it being two-three weeks since we'd touched last. Carol, of course, would never go away.

Erik Lensherr from the Statue was almost entirely gone, but then, I'd never kept him as alive as I'd kept Logan either.

_—Weird skill to pass on. I didn't get anything really useful but some weird dreams and an ability to use a gun. I don't understand him, Logan.—_

_—You're thinking about Jubilee.—_

I frowned, mulling that.

_—Yeah. I mean—why didn't I pick up more of that? Now that I know, I can trace some of those images, and I'm pretty sure if I meditate, I can find out more.—_ I sighed. No one understood how my mutation worked, why it worked, or what exactly it did, besides the obvious.

_—You don't wanna find out more.—_

_—You remember how well I got along with Christy?—_ Inner Logan winced. —_Yeah, well, see, at least she was only fucking you. I feel even more territorial when someone's walking on my specialness turf.—_

Logan laughed at me and I growled into my hair, flexing my fingers briefly before moving my hand down to the projector on my hip, hidden safely under the line of my underwear. It really was easy to get used to. Staring at the blonde strands that trickled across my eyes, I pushed them back and sighed.

_—Do I look good as a blonde?—_

_—You're always pretty, darlin'.—_

See, the thing was, he meant it. Sad, but true. I could look like shit after a mission, covered in dirt and blood and my hair an absolute windblown mess, and he'd never notice. I was Marie, therefore I was pretty. How nice.

_—Sometimes, sugar, you are really useless.—_ Sighing, I checked the sun's position in the sky. —_He said they'd be done by seven. It's getting close—I'm going to go wait for him in the foyer and try to avoid dinner. I smelled liver casserole and you know, I really wanna avoid that. I don't care how good it is for me.—_

_—It will never cease to amaze me that you never got my liking for liver.—_

_—Raw or cooked, sugar, it doesn't do much for me. Still bleeding only makes it less attractive.—_ Pulling my jacket on, I threw the light bag over my shoulder and thought about requesting Oriental tonight. Surely, somewhere in New York, there was some sesame chicken. Surely.

"Marie."

I fixed my bag over my shoulder again, smiling up to see Logan approaching from the direction of the school. He was good at finding me, always had been.

"Smelled me out?"

That got me a full grin and he paused while I crossed the stretch of velvety green grass and fell into step beside him. Questions about Jubes, all thoughts of Scott's talk, were dismissed. No effect on me. So there.

"I could find you anywhere." His hand brushed across my back, pausing when he didn't feel the line of the shoulder holster. "They in the bag?"

"My arsenal?" I gave him a glance and shrugged. "You said off-campus."

"So I did. Prefer you wore them when you go outside this far from the Mansion." He brushed my hair back from my face with gloved fingers. "Just for safety, baby. I don't like this second attack."

Tilting my head, I really couldn't exactly disagree there. Wished I could, but the hell of it was, it was real now. These were what I needed to be safe. That was absolute fact.

"Okay." His hand settled on my far shoulder and I watched the students in the shadow of the Mansion, fewer now. Getting ready for dinner, I supposed. Liver. Eww. "Are we leaving?"

Oh, a suspicious pause. I didn't like that and turned my head up, coming to a stop when Logan didn't answer immediately.

"Okay, this isn't good. What's wrong?"

Under my gaze, Logan shifted uncomfortably, then sighed.

"Scott wants us on campus tonight."

"Why?" There had to be a good reason. Somehow, I didn't think the request was normal. Logan was too big on personal space and privacy.

"The FoH cell we cleaned out was funded overseas—government support. Full support. Campus security is fine—but Scott and I are flying out early tomorrow morning and Scott wants us on campus."

His eyes evaded mine. Heh, good trick, sugar. But didn't work on me. I reached out, catching his chin.

"What else?"

He sighed again and folded his fingers over mine.

"You're pushy, you know that?"

"What a revelation. What's Scott worried about?"

"You."

Well, should have expected that. I felt myself stiffen, but Logan tightened his grip on my hand, not letting me withdraw.

"What's he think?" After our little discussion—well, I supposed I hadn't done much to comfort him on that score.

"He knows you were in the restricted area the other night and he knows Hank was in town." The muscles in his jaw clenched. "Your little buddy Lucas decided to go to Summers after I tossed the report."

"Because you restricted him to campus?"

A tiny smile turned up the corners of his mouth.

"Heard about that, huh? That, and the ripping of his throat you promised if he went into the restricted area again." Logan shrugged. "I told Scott you had permission from me to go and he wanted to know why you wanted to go there and why you threatened Lucas." Logan shifted his grip on my hand, pulling me along to walk again, but our angle was a little different, giving us a longer time before we got back in the Mansion's vicinity. Ah, he didn't want to look suspicious. Got it.

"What did you say?"

"You wanted to check up on someone who knew Danvers and that Lucas annoyed you." Logan shrugged slightly, but there was something on his face that worried me. The lightest edge of strain. Shit, he and Scott were close—hadn't I noticed that before? Logan wasn't the type to like this sort of subterfuge—it wasn't in his nature to betray his friends. Looking down, I hated that I was making him do this.

"I'm sorry," I said softly.

"Nothing to be sorry for. Scooter's tense right now, with Polaris and the attacks and Mags riding his ass about getting the younger mutants trained. Mags doesn't quite understand why Scott doesn't want to rush all the kids into uniform now and get them on the front lines."

"The front lines?"

Logan nodded slowly and I watched the sun play off the short dark hair, bringing out the rich mahogany and traces of sun-bleached blonde on the tips. He spent a lot of time outdoors.

"Camp control. The beta and gamma class are trained for that. We're strapped for personnel and we don't put anyone out who's not completely trained. The restricted zones are run by the humans themselves, but not the camps."

I thought about that.

"I didn't realize—"

"That we did that?" Logan's smile twisted a little. "When I got here, before the war, I taught every kid how to defend themselves, but I never taught them how to kill. It was the line we drew in the sand, that we would go this far and no further. During the war, that's the only thing I taught them to do. Control of their powers be damned—just make sure they could survive the field. Bobby was one of my best students, and on the field humans were scared to death of him. It's one thing to die from Scott's direct hits with the visor or from Jeannie's dropping things on them—but a whole new level of hell to freeze to death in the middle of summer under one hundred degree heat. He was good—better than good. Still is."

"What about Johnny?"

Logan winced a little and I wondered where that came from. Looking up, I saw the hazel eyes were fixed on a distant point in the far field.

"It was a long time before John—before I trained John."

I frowned.

"But he was responsible for a lot of the destruction during the war, on the field...."

The expression that crossed Logan's face stopped me. I remembered Kitty's voice, clear in my head, telling me how long it'd taken for St. John to emerge from his mental distance.

"That was John's power, but Jeannie's mind. They broke him in the camps." Logan paused and I shivered. The usually warm voice was absolutely flat. "We needed him. We had to separate Bobby and John when we split our fronts up and Kitty wasn't enough to keep him stable. Jeannie would feed through him and direct his power. It was hard on both of them, Jeannie especially. She hated that we had to do it and hated what happened to John after." Logan's hand tightened in mind. "But Scott gave the order."

"And no one disobeys when Scott decides?"

Logan's glance at me was telling.

"Not when he makes the right call. We needed Pyro—we needed most of the kids. With Kitty to give him familiarity and Jeannie to control him, we got more done faster. And it had to be fast—when we started the war, the experimentation camps became death camps. We had to get them out fast or there wouldn't be anything left but bodies."

The raw, simple words hurt me more than anything else he'd said. Without meaning to, I leaned into him, lacing my fingers through his.

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

"Not to you." The strong fingers squeezed mine and I smiled up at him, trying to change the subject. "So, where's your room on campus?"

Ooh. Interesting reaction. On any other creature on earth, that would have been a flush. But not Logan. Of course not.

"Marie, I know that the situation has been—but you know, you don't have to—"

Oh. Yeah. Right. Situation.

"It's a big bed," I answered. Was I pushing for this? Yes, yes I was. This was necessary. That was it. Gotta keep the cover. "And anyway, it'll look weird otherwise, you know?" Hurry on to new subject. Got it. "Can we run get some clothes first though? I need something to wear tomorrow." Maybe change into pretty underwear tonight—oh _shit_, Marie, what the hell are you _thinking_? With an excess of virtue, I shut down all those thoughts and concentrated on logistics. "And get some Chinese food or something? I can't face liver for dinner."

Logan laughed and I realized we were nearly to the back porch. No Scott in sight. This day was seriously looking up.

"Whatever you want, baby."

See, I liked the sound of that.

* * *

Ten inches.

Exactly the amount of space that separated us. Me in my sweatpants and a t-shirt, gloves and socks, since I really didn't feel like wearing the collar to bed at the Mansion and having a night emergency. I had grabbed an extra sheet from the linen closet, pleased to note that the air conditioning was kept as low as always, and Logan and I picked sides of the bed.

Logan was a long time falling asleep, so I pretended first and curled up on my side, facing the wall. Logan got closet side. That was dandy. Trying to discipline myself into sleep was not easy. No sir.

Logan was in my bed. Or I was in his. In any case, we were sharing a bed. A big bed granted, and that wasn't exactly old hat or anything, but neither was it completely new. I mean, he'd spent bad nights with me. Of course. I'd even slept practically on top of him when I was fighting Carol.

See, the real difference was, this was Logan. _Logan_. Different Logan. Highly attractive short haired Logan in his own t-shirt, sweatpants, and socks combo, looking so incredibly delicious stretched out inches away from me that it was a pain to remember that this was _not_ what I needed to be thinking about.

Checking his breathing, I knew he was asleep and rolled on my back, then to face him, rearranging the extra sheet around me. I wasn't in any claw danger—yippee invulnerability—but also because he knew my scent as familiar in the bed. At least, that's how it'd worked in my world and I figured it couldn't be that much different here.

The fine strong bones of his profile were etched in sharp relief against the cool white and brown of the wall and closet door, lips slightly parted. I could spend all day just tracing the lines of his face with my fingers. Sometimes, I could almost imagine I could draw him from memory, though God knew, I didn't have any artistic talent whatsoever. Logan did, though. Frowning, I felt the edges of a memory trying to nudge its way out. The smell of lead pencils on paper and charcoal, a physical memory so strong I rubbed my fingers together to get rid of the imaginary dust.

Settling down to to watch him, I watched his chest rise and fall with his breathing. God, I wanted him.

Whoa.

Blinking, I almost sat up. No, I didn't. I wanted my Logan, once upon a time. This was _not_ my Logan. This was the head of campus security. This was the current instructor of camp security officers. This was a revolutionary and an oppressor and a very, very different man from the one I'd grown up with.

A very different man, but the same. Still honorable in a different set of ethics. I suddenly wished I'd told him what Lucas was doing in the restricted zone—a lapse of faith, of belief on my part. He wouldn't countenance that. He wouldn't. He _wouldn't_.

Reaching out before I could think better of my impulse, I shook his shoulder and he came cleanly awake, eyes finding me instinctively.

"You okay?" One hand slid down my shoulder, stopping just above the edge of my t-shirt. I nodded, then bit my lip. In retrospect....

"I lied."

He raised himself on one arm and ran a hand absently through his hair, then rolled on his side, tilting his head. He'd always been a quick riser—unlike me, he could actually _think _upon regaining consciousness.

"Lucas was trying to rape me in the restricted area. He thought I was human."

_—Oh shit, Marie. That was not how you should have told him.—_

Inner Logan's warning was milliseconds too late.

Logan sat straight up and a very, very familiar expression crossed his face. The word was feral. I _really_ should have planned this better. Or at all, for that matter. Before I could draw in a breath, I heard the sharp sound of metal and felt my breath catch as three claws ripped the air inches above the bedspread from his right hand.

"I'll kill him."

See, this is why I should always think things through. Logan threw the blanket back and I lunged, getting hold of his waist and jerking him back down on the bed. Score one for me—I was stronger and Logan fell down on top of me, knocking the breath out of us both. He scrambled up, arms going around me and pulling me into a sitting position across his knees.

Talk about suggestive as all hell....

"Marie?" His bare fingers were against my head, skimming my hair back to look into my face. "Baby, you okay?" Hazel eyes looked frantically into mine, and he drew in a sharp breath when I slowly nodded, before he roughly pulled me close.

Pressed against his chest, with long fingers stroking my hair back—shit yes, I was okay. I was better than ever. That was probably not what he meant, though. Taking a breath, I looked up and smiled.

"Invulnerable. It works for any and all occasions."

Logan nodded and made as if to move me. Claws on one hand were still out—he was careful with those. I figured he'd be very careful cutting Lucas into pieces, too. I wrapped both arms around his clothed waist and held on—just to keep him in place. Only reason.

"Don't."

"He touched you." It was a growl.

"He failed. I said I'd kill him if he went into the zone again."

Logan looked down at me, studying my face.

"Marie, no one touches you. For any reason."

"I'm fine. He failed. I hurt him. Don't kill him."

This might not work. Logan heated up fast and sometimes, just sometimes, it took awhile to bring him down. Sometimes a long while. Days, maybe. I shifted until I could get both hands to his face, make him look down at me. This wasn't good. He wasn't calming. And shit, I couldn't exactly say I was that against the idea. Young Lucas was high on my list of people who needed to be removed from civilization. Antarctica sounded good to me.

Killing him, however....

"Marie—"

"Don't kill him. Promise me you won't kill him." I made him meet my eyes, feeling Inner Logan shake his head at my efforts. Thanks, babe. You're being sooo damn helpful. "Please, Logan."

That got me a sigh and Logan relaxed a little. He was thinking. Thank you, God. I let my grip ease just a little, studying his face until the final signs of utter rage dissipated, replaced with cool appraisal of the situation.

"He's gone tomorrow—he and his two friends. They were there, weren't they?" He said it like he already knew. Well, two guys were there. I opened my mouth, then shut it. There was no use saying the two guys hadn't done anything—they'd stood by and watched me be attacked. Just as guilty.

"Two guys were with him, yeah. I don't know who."

"They're gone. Out of the zone." His entire jaw was tense. "Little bastards." The strong arms went tight around me, pulling me close again, and I rested my face against his chest, careful of the bare skin of his neck. "That shouldn't have happened. No way in hell." He growled something softly and I wondered if he needed some Danger Room time to work out his aggression. For Logan, there were only two releases for excess stress—violence or sex.

A vivid image of me pushing him down on his back here and now took up the entirety of my mind and Carol inside my head began to laugh. I deserved it. Logan growled, but I ignored him.

"Do people—do we—do mutants..." I choked it off, not sure how to frame the question.

"Mutants aren't allowed in the restricted zone without authorization from Lensherr, Scott, or me." Logan paused briefly. "The sentries are supposed to report entrance."

"They told the sentries they were from Lensherr."

"He couldn't authorize them if he wasn't here. Verbal confirmation is required on all access. They called me when you went in the zone." Logan paused, frowning into the air to my left. "Crap. I haven't been paying attention."

Huh?

"You?"

Logan nodded, arms slowly loosening, but I really didn't feel like moving yet.

"Yeah. The camps and restricted zones are my responsibility for personnel assignment." Logan growled something that could have been profanity. "Gotta check with Remy in the morning and get replacements. Shit."

Slowly, I withdrew and watched as Logan ran through mental checklists. He was head of school security AND assignor of camp and restricted zone personnel in New York zone. That was—interesting. And complex.

And sooo very different from my Logan. He'd have hated responsibility like that.

"Logan—"

"I'll be right back—Remy's up and can handle this now until I can go over the rosters tomorrow." With another growl, he reached across the bed and ran light fingers through my hair. "Go back to sleep. I won't be long."

"I'll wait up," I answered, then looked around the room, then back to him. "It's—sort of weird without you."

That got me a smile that dizzied me, before he moved from our bed with cat-like grace. He was wearing socks. It was cute. I watched him unlock the door and walk out, shutting and locking it behind him with the keys he grabbed from the bedside table and I moved over a few inches, curling up in the warm spot he'd left, taking in his scent. Silly maybe, but it felt good.

* * *

"Marie?"

I lifted my head in surprise to see Jean standing in the open doorway. No need to ask her how she got in—a telekinetic had her ways. Sitting up, I wondered if I'd fallen asleep.

"Hey." Blinking, I noted it was still full dark outside and the bed was empty except for me. "Where's Logan?"

"He and Scott are currently making several people's lives very miserable. I thought you might want to grab some coffee." She smiled then, shaking her hair back from her face. It was annoying—how could anyone have just woken up and still be that beautiful? In worn blue cotton pajama bottoms and a t-shirt (both of which were obviously Scott's), no makeup, and her hair a mess, she looked like a centerfold come to life. Inner Logan was appraising that too. I rubbed my head, trying to push back the involuntary images that lingered like ghosts in the corners of my mind. "I'm sorry if I woke you up."

"S'okay." I yawned and pushed the blankets back, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, coffee would be good. Whose lives are they making miserable?"

Jean grinned as I came out the door and we walked companionably to the stairs.

"A few restricted zone personnel, some camp guards, and three kids pulled from bed about an hour ago.." She gave me a sideways glance. An hour ago. Ah. Logan was making use of his mutated lungs apparently.

But they weren't dead. I'd bet anything that Scott's main function right now was to make doubly sure of that.

"Did Logan wake Scott up?"

Jean flushed a little and shook her head quickly.

"I did. I—felt—Logan's temper." She shrugged delicately as we got to the bottom of the stairs. "Logan and I used to have a link of sorts—I can still pick up strong emotion from him. When he's like that, he needs someone to ground him. Scott's very, very good at that."

I felt my mouth drop. A link? Logan let Jean _do_ that? Scott and Jean had had one for most of their lives together, that I knew. My face must have reflected something, because her hand rested lightly on my shoulder.

"No, Logan and I weren't involved. But—during the war, it was difficult to keep communication between the cells. When I came back from Genosha, Betsy and I set up a sort of—it's hard to explain." She frowned a little—explaining telepathy to a non-telepath sometimes sounded like some sort of psychotic episode. I should know—explaining my personalities to others had elicited a similar reaction. "It was a thread, you might say. Logan, Scott, Ororo and I set it up between us, to keep contact on the separate fronts and coordinate with Genosha when other forms of communication were impossible. It wasn't very strong, but it let us know that something was happening and when Erik rebuilt Cerebro, I could use it to speak to all three easily, even from Genosha."

That made sense—but I got the feeling she was simplifying even more than necessary. Her power trickled along my skin in a soft buzz, a reminder of the amazing mind behind those mild brown eyes. She was so strong. It still surprised me to feel it on her. As we walked into the kitchen, the cabinet threw itself open as if in welcome and the coffee slid out, patiently hovering near the coffee pot. As Jean got cups out of the cabinet, the water turned on and the pot floated over to wash itself out before filling up and dancing back across the room.

Fascinated, I watched a filter skip up from the far cabinet and slide into the receptacle, before coffee grains poured into it, then the pot cheerfully returned to pour water in. By the time Jean had the cups out, the coffee maker was on and the rich smell of coffee filled the room.

"Okay," I breathed, utterly entranced. "That was very cool."

Jean turned to look at me, then laughed before opening the refrigerator and getting out the cream and some leftover cake.

"I've had a lot of practice."

No shit on that. I would be surprised if my Jean could get the pot under the water without dropping it.

As Jean sat down, I looked at the green mug with a happy little frog on it. The handle was a frog leg.

"Cute," I said, pointing to the mug. Jean grinned.

"Yeah. I like thematic mugs." She gave me a long look over the rim of her cup—a happy pig. I wanted one of those. The tail was the handle. "I don't need telepathy to know something happened to you in the restricted zone. Logan's anger was enough. What happened?"

I sighed, playing with the mug and Jean's eyes grew distant as the coffee maker finished—that sucker was fast. The pot took flight and came over for a visit. I sat back as it poured into my cup, then Jean's, before taking a comfortable position between us on the potholder that ran over from the stove just in time to slide beneath.

I loved this. I wanted to see more. But Jean had a question, and I got the feeling she might be waiting for an answer.

"Lucas—thought I was human."

Jean's expression remained smooth and curious—I took a breath, then let it out slowly. She didn't know either—about what went on there. What the sentries had allowed.

"He—tried to attack me. Rape me."

Jean was a good enough telepath not to project under stress, so I didn't feel her project. What I _did_ feel was the tingling of her power jump, strong and hot against my skin. I drew back, all unmeaning, watching her eyes narrow.

"Little rat." She stared at her cup. "Logan is exiling them from the zone. He'd rip their citizenship if he could, but we can't do that without Lensherr's approval. Damn." Taking a drink from her coffee, she pressed the tip of one finger to her mouth. "That explains a lot about Lucas' absences. I assumed he was going to New York."

I nodded a little blankly, taking a sip from my coffee.

"Well, at least that explains why Logan was so—determined." A little smile turned up her mouth as she looked at me. "Are you settling in okay? Logan's furniture is terrible."

I almost choked on my coffee.

"Pretty good," I managed between breaths. I should be ready for stuff like this.

"In a few days, I'll take you into New York, and we can look for something better." Her smile turned mischievous as she cut us each a piece of cake. "He doesn't have any taste. Trust me, we've tried."

That I knew. I smiled back, taking another sip of coffee and thinking about how I'd like to redo the living room. Leather couch would be nice, wood finish. A better coffee table—something simple and strong, yeah, but undamaged would be good. Maybe a bigger bed—

—hello, my name is Marie and I am utterly insane. No question.

"Yeah," I murmured, unsure what else I could say. Jean was making some serious headroads into the cake, I noticed, and she caught me watching and grinned, licking the icing off her lips.

"Hungry a lot," she told me. "It's normal." She gave the coffee a glance. "I'm caffeine limited, but I don't think anyone wants to see me deprived completely, even Nathan."

Who was Nathan? My expression must have showed it, because she paused with the last crumb of cake on her fork.

"Logan hasn't told you?" She paused, shaking her head. "I suppose he wouldn't yet. I'm pregnant."

My eyes widened. Jean was pregnant. That was—well, that was excellent news. My Jean had been talking about it, but—I leaned back into my chair.

"That's wonderful," I answered sincerely. "Congratulations. How far along—"

"Fourteen weeks," she answered, taking another sip of coffee and finishing off the fork. A glance at the cake, then she shrugged and cut herself another slice. "We—weren't sure I would make it this time, but so far, all's well." Unconsciously, her hand had dropped to smooth over her stomach slowly. "Everything's checking out normal. I'm not worried."

This time? I shut my mouth over the question and took a drink of coffee. She was worried. She was stressed as hell and it showed—even though she wasn't projecting, I could feel her tension.

"I guess Scott's excited too?" I said, trying to think of something that wasn't all the questions I wanted to ask. This time. There'd been other times. Her smile lit up her face and I caught my breath—so did Inner Logan, but for once, I understood. I totally understood.

"Very. It's a surprise he hasn't grounded me to campus." We shared a smile over men and their strange ways. "He's been tracking down parenting books left and right."

I could imagine. Once an overachiever, always an overachiever. I finished off my coffee, pouring by hand another cup and this time adding a little cream and sugar. Black was preferred for my first cup, but I liked it either way. Curious blend of Inner Logan and Marie there.

"You want to ask what I meant by this time."

I sputtered through my taste of creamed coffee and looked up. The dark eyes were calm, but suddenly seemed years and years older. Somewhere in my mind, Kitty's memories were trying to push forward, but I pressed them back. This was personal—something between Jean and I alone. I didn't want a sneak preview.

"Was I projecting?"

"A little. Just curiosity. People are usually sensitive around me—sometimes it becomes a little annoying." God, tell me about it, Jeannie. All that 'being deprived of human touch' crap had done strange things to those around me. I hated the pity, the veiled curiosity, the careful wording of the questions that finally would be asked. Sometimes, I would have given anything for someone just to ask outright and damn well stop pussyfooting around the issue like I'd shatter if someone was just straight with me.

"I'm sorry. I know—I understand. I was wondering if it'd been difficult to conceive, that's all." My Jean had never mentioned any problems, after all; then again, that wouldn't have been something she'd have discussed with me. That was 'Ro's territory, or her close friends. I was her little sister, her surrogate daughter, not her friend. Not really, not in that way.

"To conceive, no. To carry, yes. I miscarried in the camps and medical treatment wasn't forthcoming." She tried to shrug it off lightly, but the brown eyes didn't change.

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

"God."

"It makes things difficult. There aren't a lot of mutant gynecologists or obstetricians I can consult with." And hell if anyone would trust a norm with Scott Summers' wife. I could completely see that. "So we worked with what we have. I'm hoping—this is the longest I've carried so far."

"I hope so, Jean."

Her smile lightened.

"So do I." Another absent stroke of her stomach. Nathan. She thought it was a boy already. Maybe she knew—for all I knew about telepathic doctors, they could tell sex at conception. And Nathan was a nice name. Taking another drink of coffee, I thought about what it would be like to carry a child. I couldn't. Jean at home had never had to tell me so—I'd had enough biology and neurology from college and general exposure to be aware of all of the possible problems. Conception was the least of my worries—there was no way to know whether the child I carried could even survive my body, if my mutation recognized it as alien and tried to absorb it. And if I carried to term—would I be able to touch my own child? Probably not. Could inherit my mutation, and what kind of thing was that to do to a kid? What kind of parent could I be?

The thoughts were unsettling—the truth was, I'd never really wanted it either. I was too young, still an X-Man, and it wasn't like I had a lot of prospects for a possible sperm donor wandering around me. Watching Jean's soft smile, though, the way her gaze turned interior—it reopened the door I'd closed.

I shut it as fast as I could even as Inner Logan breathed his way through my thoughts.

_—It won't always be like this, Marie.—_

I gritted my teeth and slammed my shields down, knowing Jean would sense that and probably wonder why.

_—I'm not worrying about it. It's not that big a deal—I never really wanted kids anyway.—_

Maybe that could change, though. But God, wasn't this just the most wrong time in the world for it to happen?

"So is Scott hand carving a nursery?" I asked in a bright voice, taking a definitive drink of my coffee. Jean laughed and picked up another forkful of cake.

"He would if he could." Jean shared another smile with me and got down to some serious cake eating. "In a few weeks, I suppose we'll start decorating the nurshery." Her voice held the slightest trace of nervous uncertainty—and I wanted, with all my heart, to tell her that everything was going to work out just ducky. That she'd have her little Summers kid and all would be well. Damn it, I was relating personally. This couldn't be a good thing.

"Ladies."

If Jean had been beautiful before, the appearance of Scott Summers just changed the universe's concept of beauty. Dearest God. I glanced back over my shoulder as Scott sauntered in, hair brown-blond mess, slightly flushed, and in a matching pair of flannel pajama bottoms. How very cute. Just adorable. Logan wandered in after and I almost swallowed my tongue.

Anyone who can look that sexy wearing tube socks should be put on display somewhere for the masses to drool over.

I turned back around and dived into my coffee as Scott grabbed a chair and pulled up to the table, his wife feeding him a bite of cake.

"All well, Fearless Leader?" Jean asked with a grin.

"Three deep scans tomorrow morning, before they're taken out of the zone," Scott answered absently, licking the icing away and taking another bite from Jean. This was just too cute for words. "Who made carrot cake?"

"Ro and Betsy did this afternoon. They hid this one for me." She shook her hair back and gave him a smile. "I can do the scans before breakfast—are they downstairs in containment?"

"Yes." That was all. I felt Logan's presence just at my back and Jean looked up, giving Logan another smile, warm and completely friendly. There was something damn weird about the X-team being this all-over friendly. I shook my head and felt Logan pull the chair back, dropping beside me with an interested glance at my cake. I pushed it over to him and he grinned and took the fork. Logan never refused food.

"When Lensherr gets back, I want them out of the country."

Scott looked up and nodded from behind his red glasses.

"So do I. But I doubt Lensherr will give a damn."

"Not for entering a restricted area, probably not." Logan's voice was disgusted. "But for attacking Marie, they signed their own ticket out. Stupid of them to report Marie in the first place." He gave me a glance. "Stupid not to tell me immediately."

I flushed and looked down at my cup. Vaguely, I heard the cabinet open and two cups hovered over the table before settling in front of Scott and Logan. Neither looked particularly surprised. They were so spoiled. This was an interesting show.

"This doesn't help sleep, Jeannie," Logan remarked over his last bite of cake and Jean snorted.

"Caffeine has almost no effect on you. And Scott burns it out fast. Besides," she gave Scott a glance, "sleep is overrated."

"Jeannie," Logan's voice was amused as Scott flushed. Sugar shock was setting in from all this adorableness—and with it, a brief flash of envy. The X-Men of my world had never been so easy with each other and this Scott had somewhere along the line acquired a better version of his sense of humor. Logan poured himself a cup of coffee, glance darting between me, Scott and Jean, and the doors. I took a quick view of the room to confirm my suspicions. Yes, both he and Scott could see all three kitchen doors easily and no one could possibly sneak up on them. I wondered if they even knew they did it anymore—the automatic positioning of Scott's chair, the way Logan leaned on the table that kept everything in view. It showed.

"You done, Marie?" Logan asked, and I blinked, readjusting to here and now, then drank the last mouthful of coffee down and stood up, forgetting my slice of cake. Logan was already on his feet and pulled my chair out. "Kids, go to bed."

"Since when do you give me orders?" Scott asked without heat. A smile was turning up his lips.

"Around the time I started listening to yours, Cyke. Night." His hand dropped to the small of my back and I followed the pressure of his fingers to the door and he pushed it open for me. The halls were still dark and we made our quiet way up the stairs in companionable silence. Then Logan stopped, head cocked slightly, and he laughed softly.

"What?"

"Listening," he answered and gently pushed me forward. Straining, I couldn't hear anything. But—

"Oh." I felt myself flush and Logan grinned as he followed me up the stairs.

"Jeannie's having a hormonal surge." Logan sighed. "And people wonder why I don't wanna stay on campus. Not something I wanna run into in the middle of the night."

I giggled at Logan's pathetic tone and pushed open our door, stretching the crick from my back before absently crawling on the bed and collapsing on my side. Vaguely, I heard him scout the room, locking the door again and checking the bathroom.

"For God sake, you think someone wandered in while we were gone?" I asked. The noise was getting to me. "Come to bed already."

He laughed softly and I heard him pad across the room and one knee dropped the mattress on his side of the bed.

"What, not checking under the bed for gremlins?"

"Gremlins?"

Well, my Logan probably wouldn't have known that reference either.

"They come out after midnight—by feeding furry gizmos—" I reached for the rest of the storyline, then gave up. And truth be told, it sounded like a mental breakdown. "I'll find the movie. Never mind." Rolling on my stomach, I worked the blankets out from under me and yawned. "What time are you leaving in the morning?"

"Six. In about—" he must have checked the clock from the pause, and where was the clock anyway?—"three hours."

"Sleep."

"You're hogging the covers."

I lifted my head and glared.

"I never hog the covers." Well, maybe a little. I was used to sleeping alone. Kitty said I looked like a burrito at night. And she was right.

Logan dropped beside me, bouncing the bed, and I snuggled into the pillow, eyes growing heavy. Tomorrow I had things to do. Tomorrow night, Hank was going to finally go see the machine and start finding out what made this happen to me. I might have my chance to go home.

Slipping into sleep, I wondered why the thought wasn't quite as exciting as it had been only a few hours before.

* * *

Between the Danger Room, Johnny, and an afternoon of foosball, I had a day that was completely unproductive, exhausting, and probably the most enjoyable I'd had since my arrival. It was rather easy to slip back into normal relationships with my teammates, given the fact that they had no idea who I really was. Well, except Johnny. Bobby was more problematic, and the icy blue gaze fixed on me with a strange sort of pity that grated on my nerves more than I thought possible.

I'd never been a big fan of pity, after all, especially when I couldn't figure out what the pity was for.

After the third game of foosball (me and Kitty won), everyone drifted off to their evening duties or dinner, and already aware that the kitchen was serving a bastardized form of beef stroganoff, I ducked into the rec room and curled up on the couch with a book from the library. Logan was supposed to be home before dinner—please God, don't make me eat that stroganoff. No matter what universe you happened to be in, it was rarely done well, and a Russian next door neighbor as a child had given me a palate that did not take bad imitations.

I heard their voices before I saw them—Logan, his usual abrasive post-mission self, and Jean, softer and warmer. Ouch, how familiar. Ducking down on the couch, I dropped the book beside me, trying to find a way to look casual and not-sneaky-listening-to-other-people's conversations. No more missing important chats for me, oh no. And this might be important. This was _not_ sick curiosity about what kind of relationship existed between Jean Grey-Summers and Logan here. Not at all, because shit if I gave a damn. Period and end.

"—and you seem to be the only one she's really comfortable with. So get her into the lab. Talk to her. I want to get this over with."

Wouldn't you know, it was about me. Damn. I glanced at the far door that led outside, but making a run for it just seemed—well, cowardly. And they'd see me—if I was right, they were in the absolute worst spot for me to get away without being caught.

"She doesn't like labs. Bad memories." I steadied my breathing as they stopped at the rec room door, a good thirty feet from the couch. "I'm not gonna push her either, so just feel free to fuck off, Jeannie. Leave her alone, let her get acclimatized to everything."

I didn't want to get acclimatized to this. That scared me more than anything else.

"It's more than just a fling, isn't it, Logan?"

A longer pause. I held my breath, hands beginning to sweat inside my gloves.

"None of your business."

"Logan—"

"Fuck. Off."

"Logan, I'm happy for you." It came out in a rush, as if she was afraid he'd be gone before she could get the words out.

Whoa. Huh? Slow down. Rewind. Apparently, Logan was having a very similar reaction, because he didn't walk away from Jean, which I'd half expected them to do.

"Jeannie—" Soft warning, almost a growl. But—

"I know." Her feet, coming closer, and I took a chance and ducked my head out, saw her reach out one delicate hand, brushing his shoulder before I ducked back down. "You don't want to talk about it, you don't want anyone to comment on it, and you're pissed because we noticed. Sorry—we've known you for seven years and lived inside your mind for one of them. There's damn little you can hide from us anymore."

The silence wasn't so much tense as resigned, and I almost felt Logan's breath hiss out.

"It's not like that."

"Yes it is." A voice of liquid understanding—that was my Jean Grey, pure compassion, love, feeling. Tears prickled behind my eyes—oh, this wasn't right. This wasn't. She couldn't be the same person who invaded minds, who helped give orders to imprison thousands. She couldn't be. "I don't have to read your mind to see the way you watch her, the way you are with her. It's—I know what you've been through, but it's not destiny, Logan. You don't always have to be alone."

"I don't wanna talk about this." His voice was soft. God, this was a conversation that wouldn't exist in my world. I took a breath, letting it out slowly, my fingers digging into the book beneath my hip.

"Just stop waiting for the axe to fall. It doesn't have to. You won't lose her too."

Oh fuck. Oh God, dear God, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

I let myself sink down into the cushion, shutting my eyes against everything that was implied in those three sentences.

_—Logan?—_

Nothing. Not even a clue that he was there.

I heard his footsteps cross the rec room, out to the dining room, and Jean fade down the hall toward the offices. I peered out from behidn the couch to check for bystanders, then scrambled to my feet. He didn't need to know I'd heard that. He didn't. Ducking out into the hall, blessedly free of Jean's presence, I leaned back against the wall for a few minutes, then forced myself to walk back in the door. Logan was coming back through, and a grin turned up his mouth as he walked toward me. My mouth went dry.

"You ready?"

I jerked my gaze up, unable to move for a moment under the patient smile in his eyes. I took his hand, letting him pull me out of the doorway, for the first time really noticing how he touched me, how often he did it. I liked it, yes. Looked forward to the arm loosely draped around my shoulders, the casual touch of his hands. I kept my gaze on the floor as we approached the front door and he pushed it open for me, emerging into bright sunlight, his hand pressed against the small of my back before resting on the back of my neck. Possession, pure and simple, marking me for all to see. I'd thought—I'd thought he'd done it to cement my alibi in the minds of everyone around us, the reason I was staying with him, to keep the curious away. And he was, no question, and for all those reasons, but also because it was true.

He was doing it because he liked it, because he wanted to. Because he didn't want anyone else to touch me, to see me and think I was free, anyone at all. He wanted those things, even if he couldn't admit them to Jean, to me, even to himself.

Under the fading sunlight of evening, I acknowledged it, and I knew, knew, I'd been hiding it from myself as well. As someone stopped us to ask him a question, I realized I was leaning into him, taking in his scent, imprinting it into my mind, and my gloved hand was idly playing with the buttons of his jacket.

I'd made a lie the truth. This was how it happened. I wanted it too.

* * *

"You hungry?"

I started from my contemplation of my fingernails—no, they weren't that interesting. Nor were they worth the bother—constant glove-wearing had made my interest in my nails pretty much non-existent. My box of duck l'orange had been picked over several times before I gave up and took it to the fridge. Emotional equilibrium and hunger, too damn connected. If I ever got really stressed, I'd starve to death.

"Not really." And I wasn't—before I could say anything, Logan was beside me, tilting my head up, and I noted again that he was wearing gloves. Almost always did now, in fact, and I wondered when that had started.

I had to guess when I reappeared in his life.

"Anything wrong?"

World in crisis, I'm in crisis—take your pick. I tried to find something to say, avoided looking at him—but my Logan had never let me get away with that and this Logan was no different. He tilted my chin a little farther and met my eyes.

"You've been quiet since we left the school. Wanna tell me what's bothering you?"

"Everything," I said finally. His finger brushed against my cheek, an almost-caress that left me breathless. He had to hear my heartbeat speed up at the touch—it was all I could hear, pounding in my ears, a rush through my body with the casual contact no one in my life had ever given me before. And he froze, staring into my eyes.

"Marie—"

I jerked my head away, staring down at my hands.

"I'm fine." It was a lie. He could smell it all over me. For a second, there was nothing, then he stood up, crossing the room and, for a moment, I thought he was going to leave. But—the sound of the locks being turned in the door and he came back, sitting in the chair across from me, reaching for a cigar in the box on coffee table shelf before leaning back into the chair.

"Tell me."

Tell him what? That I was getting used to the touching and the attention and having him near me, having him want me? That he'd never been anything but my friend and my guardian and maybe in some weird way my father-figure? That I'd given up hope a long time ago and he'd brought it back—because my Logan had never, ever looked at me like he did. Never touched me like that, never watched me with that steady gaze that turned on parts of my mind I'd long ago turned off.

Never trailed his fingers across the small of my back until the clothing didn't seem to exist, and I thought I could feel his fingerprints etched into my flesh.

_—What are you doin', Marie?—_

Fuck. Logan. Reaching out, I groped for the collar, jerking it around my neck and clicking the lock into place, taking in a sharp breath at the rush of dizziness before it faded—I was getting used to it. Running my fingers through my hair, I leaned back into the sofa. His eyes fixed on the collar with something in them that seemed almost like satisfaction and almost like shame. But neither one, and I couldn't make anything of that.

"I don't know how to start."

"Beginning works." He lit the cigar and absently, I reached for one too, seeing his eyebrow jump a little when my fingers closed over it, raising it to my mouth.

"Just because they're quiet doesn't mean I don't keep some of the preferences." I tried a smile on, found it lacking, and got up, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. "Light it?"

The hazel eyes measured me briefly, then he took out the lighter, leaning forward to cup a hand around it when I placed the cigar between my lips. He met my eyes and the lighter flared to life in his eyes.

I couldn't look away. After a few seconds, I stopped wanting to. The endless moment stretched between us, with the flame burning and the heat of it faint against the skin of my cheeks, like the touch of his fingers.

"Okay." He leaned back and I automatically drew in a breath and nearly coughed myself into asphyxiation. When I lifted my head, I saw him grinning a little and snorted at him. "Very smooth. Not gonna get outta this chat that way, though. Tell me what's botherin' you."

I realized I was still sitting on the coffee table and began to rise, before his hand came down on my thigh, freezing me in place.

His _bare_ hand now. I swallowed, looking up briefly before biting down on my cigar. I sooo understood Logan chewing on those suckers. Much superior to worrying at your lip or grinding your teeth. Tasted pretty good, too—but then, I liked cigars. I didn't like the taste of tooth enamel as I ground it off.

"Talk."

I took another drag, then slowly held it, letting it out. He watched me for a moment, the hazel eyes fixed on my face, before he sat back—shit, removed his hand. A flare of recognition in his eyes at my posture, the arch of my fingers, the casually careless position on the coffee table when I leaned back on one arm and enjoyed the flavor that lingered on my tongue.

"You learned that from him." He gestured toward the cigar and I glanced at it briefly. Him. The other Logan.

"Yeah." I paused, taking the cigar from my mouth. "Cubans. Did you know I had a cigar preference before I could legally smoke them?" I grinned, staring down at my hands, realizing I was still wearing my gloves. "Cuban black. I had contacts that'd get them for me. I guess I was the only sixteen year old girl in New York who had connections to the black-market cigar trade." It was weird, come to think of it. Bobby and Johnny had taken the occasional hit of X and Jubes, Remy, and Kitty would get stoned out on the lawn (okay, so I participated in that a bit), but me, I had my Cubans and my bottle of Jack Daniels secreted in the floor of my room, wrapped around with a metal chain and a dogtag for when I needed to lose myself in someone else.

"You said you're—you and he—are friends?"

I nodded, playing with the end of the cigar for a moment before looking at him again.

"Yeah, sugar. Best friends." I paused a little, thinking about that. "You taught me to drink water when I did shots so I wouldn't have a hangover and let me crash on your couch. Like now, just—" I waved at the empty space where most people would have a TV, "—with television and stuff."

I felt his eyes on me, running over my body as if he was removing each piece of clothing one by one to study the skin beneath, and I took another long pull from my cigar. When I let out the smoke, Logan pushed the ashtray closer to my hip and leaned back in the chair. He wasn't going to let go of this. Crap. They both had to be the stubborn sort.

"I was sixteen when I met you and you—you saved my life. I had—feelings." I puffed at the cigar—God, bad idea—and let out the smoke in a rush of words. "I got over it. I did. Not a big deal, you know?"

"You're lying through your teeth." He said it casually—and here was the difference, that reminded me that this wasn't the Logan I knew. The other Logan would have avoided this topic at all costs.

"Logan—"

"You can lie your way through the school, Marie, but you can't lie to me." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to meet my gaze without hesitation. I shivered—he was too close, I was too aware of it. My fingers began to shake and I lifted the cigar to my lips, wanting to avoid saying anything else—because what he'd make me say was the truth.

"You never got over it."

"I moved on." There we go, crap to hell. The cigar was plucked from my lips, ground out in the ashtray and put on the floor beside our feet. His expression was unreadable.

"I can tell—ever since you saw me, I've smelled it on you. You never got over him."

"Stop it, Logan."

I began to get up, but a hand slid over my thigh, and everything just _stopped_. Breathing, thought, nothing but the feel of his fingers moving over my jeans-clad thigh, up to my hip, rubbing slow circles deep into my skin, marking me. I shivered as he shifted closer, felt his breath brush my hair when I forced my head to turn away.

"I can smell it on you, feel it on you." Against my ear, inescapable. "You like it when I touch you."

I couldn't deny that. Shit, I couldn't deny anything, and a hand cupped my cheek, turning my face. The hazel eyes burned into me, before the lightest brush of his lips over mine—God, Logan was kissing me. He was kissing me. He was—

A little more pressure, gentle, searching, coaxing out my response, and I couldn't stop myself—oh that was a lie, I didn't want to. I didn't want to stop, wanted more, everything I could get. Opening my mouth, I slid an arm around his shoulder and let him push me back on the coffee table's firm surface. He settled over me, pressing my legs apart, sharing my sharply indrawn breath at the feel of him pressed into my body, and his tongue slid between my open lips, tracing the line of my teeth, exploring inside, his hand in my hair tilting my head further.

My first real kiss. Cody, the boy I almost killed, with silk for Bobby and Remy, but this—this was my first kiss. This was the one I wanted to remember, wanted to burn into my mind. How he tasted and smelled, how he filled my mouth and wrapped his tongue around mine. Warm and wet and heady and slick, mapping my mouth with every stroke.

I drew my foot around his knee and pushed myself down against him, grinding through two pairs of jeans, and felt the instant response in the soft growl into my mouth I couldn't help but echo.

He was right—it was all over me. And he was right too—I'd never moved on, not completely.

He pulled back abruptly, staring down at me, and I could hear my own harsh breathing as I ran my fingers through his hair, down to scratch lightly at the back of his neck when his tongue traced the line of my jaw.

"Marie, baby," he whispered against my ear, biting sharply into the skin just below, and I stopped breathing. His free hand trailed up my side from my hip to my breast, thumb brushing the nipple, bringing my entire body alight—he wanted me, he wanted me, knowing it and having it were so different, so good, I shut my eyes and let my body take over, finding the buttons of his shirt, fingers shaking when he moved to my throat.

"God, Logan—" I whispered, and his hands were rough, lifting himself so he could take the edge of my shirt, pulling it up, and I half-rose so he could pull it over my head. Then he kissed me again, hands roughly cupping my breasts—no scarf, nothing between us, nothing, I couldn't get over that, the feel, the taste, the scents that seemed suddenly so vivid, brilliant, like colors I could feel. Nothing like this, nothing could be—I dug my fingers into his back and pulled him closer, the warm skin of his chest against mine through the opening of his shirt and my bra, tightening a leg around his. "Please—" I wanted my gloves off, I wanted to feel all that skin, that body, I wanted to trace it with my bare flesh and mark it, wanted to see what I could make him feel, how he could make me feel. Nothing had prepared me for this.

He lowered me back on the table, supporting himself with both hands, panting softly, trying to bring himself under control. But why—

"Who's touching you?"

Huh?

"What do you want, Marie? Who do you want?"

My hands froze, and I stared up into the hazel eyes—and I didn't have an answer. For a second, we looked at each other, then he sat up, crouching on the balls of his feet, pulling me up into his lap, and I felt him hard against me, pressing up. I couldn't stop the gasp, the soft moan and I rocked myself into him, feeling his response in the tightness of his body, the bunching of the muscles under my hands. His fingers twisted at my throat and pulled—and I saw the tags tangled between his fingers, pulling me so close our lips were a breath apart.

"Who are you thinking about?"

"You," I whispered.

"Which one? The one who trained you and cared for you and taught you to smoke that cigar? Or me?" I wanted to turn my head away, but the chain bit into my neck, forced me to keep that burning gaze. He'd never been less than perfectly honest with himself, and he demanded that from others, always had. "Look at me, Marie. I'm not him. I've done things he hasn't. I haven't done anything for you—I didn't save your life on the Statue."

"You wanted to." I didn't want to examine this, didn't want to make it into an issue, think about what I wanted—because I didn't know. Oh God, I didn't know for sure.

"Does that matter? Here and now?" A pause. "You don't want me, Marie. You want him." With a gentle push, I was seated on the coffee table and he was standing up—he couldn't look at me. I clasped my trembling hands and he crouched again, reaching for my hair, ruffling it lightly, like my Logan had so many times before, but the hazel eyes avoided mine. "Go to bed, Marie." Then he stood up and grabbed his jacket from the chair, going to the door. As I heard it close and lock behind him, I slowly found my feet, walking into the bedroom and pausing at the door, my body still aroused, my mind utterly in shock.

I ignored the lights, tripping over my discarded boots and stumbling blindly into the bathroom, flipping on the switch and staring at myself in the mirror. Lips swollen, rashes of red across my neck, and the bright metal of the collar circling my throat. The darkening bruise beneath my ear, and I pushed my hair back, seeing the indents of his teeth in my skin.

I didn't look much like Rogue anymore. Not any girl I'd ever been.

"What do you want?" I asked, reaching out to tap the glass, almost as if I expected an answer. I wasn't staying here—I was going home, my home, the place I grew up, with my family and friends and their support and love and see Logan smile at me over breakfast and tell me my hand-to-hand sucked because I depended too much on my strength.

I'd always depended on my strength—the strength to walk away from a hopeless crush, a hopeless lover, a hopeless battle. Bobby had called me cold once, when I was able to keep fighting with my allies falling all around me, when I was able to tune out everything else around me and get the job done. I depended on my strength, my speed, my reflexes, my training, my invulnerability.

I wasn't as strong as I'd thought. I couldn't walk away from home, though Hank had as good as said it was hopeless. I'd never walked away from my feelings for Logan.

And I couldn't walk away from what I felt for the man that had just left the apartment—no lie I could tell myself would convince me that making love to him would just be a substitute for having the man I loved with all my soul. This was just as real, just as powerful, and a thousand times more possible.

Sinking into the cool tile floor, I shut my eyes and buried my head in my hands, tears burning behind my closed eyelids.

God, it was always the hopeless that made me stop walking.

* * *

Hours later, I watched dawn break outside the window of his room, curled up under the blankets that smelled so much like him—and like me, too, a mix that was pleasant and faintly comforting.

Distantly, I heard the door open and stiffened.

There were faint sounds of him in the other room, the soft pad of his approach to the bedroom, and a pause—almost uncharacteristic of him, to not make the decision immediately. I wondered for a moment if he was going to come in or wait until I emerged, before he pushed the door open. Knowing it was useless to pretend I was asleep, I sat up, absently brushing my hair from my face.

For an endless moment, we stared at each other—he looked tired, almost sad, but the intensity struck me again, and I felt like something infinitely precious, wanted, even needed. Another hesitation, almost imperceptible, before he walked in, shutting the door behind him.

"Why are you still wearing it?"

My hand went up to the collar—I hadn't slept in it before. And I knew what he was thinking—I'd forgotten because I'd been so upset. He was thinking that he'd hurt me, and he was regretting it, hating himself for it. I knew that—I knew him.

I _knew_ him.

"So they'd be quiet." A pause, then I pushed the comforter a little farther down, feeling his eyes on my throat, my chest, slipping down to my waist. Wrapped in one of his old flannel shirts that smelled of him. "I was—I was waiting."

"For what?"

For you. For me. For my mind to convince me that this was an illusion of the real thing—that what was before me was nothing more than displaced memory and passion for someone else.

I've never been good at avoiding the truth. Reaching up, I twisted my fingers through the chain around my throat, taking a moment to remember everything I was willing to give up. The man who saved me on the Statue; the one that held me when I cried. The one that had taught me everything I knew, and who I'd loved more than anyone on earth.

Then twisted, feeling the chain break, and I threw it across the room, hearing it hit the wall.

I didn't watch it fall.

"For you."

A pause, before he leaned back against the door, eyes closed. He'd given up before he stepped foot in the apartment that morning—probably before the moment he left, knowing his decision had been made when he lit that cigar. Logan had never been able to walk away from me, not in this world, not in the other. God knew, he'd tried his damndest.

"Marie, what if—what if I don't care anymore?"

God. I waited, letting that flow through me, the way out he was giving me, giving my conscience, letting me pretend to myself this had nothing to do with him at all. Then I kicked back the blankets, bare legs still damp from my early-morning shower.

I was so much stronger than that. I could live with the truth.

"He's not up here." I tapped my temple, then paused, shutting my eyes briefly, clearing my mind of everything extraneous. I wasn't going to walk away, and I should have known from the beginning I wouldn't be able to. "I want you."

There was no hesitation at all, no time for me to be horrified by what I'd chosen, nothing but the weight of him on top of me, tongue pressing inside my mouth, hands braced beside me. It wasn't the slow seduction of the night before, flavored with tobacco and things neither of us were willing to say. Just bright heat, quickening my body when I unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it out of my way, when he parted the flannel with a rip of the few buttons I'd fastened, lowering his mouth to my throat, finding the bruise from the night before and growling in satisfaction. I ran my fingers through his hair, exploring his back with my bare nails, digging in when his lips settled low on my shoulder over the muscle as I arched up into him. His hands cupping my breasts, and I wrapped both legs around his waist and gasped when he ground into me.

"Marie," he murmured as his teeth found the sweat-slicked skin of my chest, the tops of my breasts, sliding his tongue between to trace an invisible line from my sternum to my navel, then a quick bite to the side of my breast. I shivered at the feel of the sideburns against the sensitized skin, brushing my nipples hard, an ache forming between my legs, and I tightened my thighs to grind up against him. My hands could just slip between us and I loosened the hold of my legs and slid my fingers down his chest, over the hard stomach that had showed up in more than one of my fantasies, down to his jeans, sliding the heel of my hand the length of his erection.

There was a hard nip to my throat, a low growl against my stomach that told me he was close to losing what little control he had. And that was what I wanted; I wanted it stripped from him, stripped from me, wanted no time to do anything but feel—all that bare skin, all that beautiful body, all mine. I got his jeans undone as he ran rough fingers between my legs, pressing hard with his thumb once, enough to draw a gasp from between my lips. I used my feet to push his jeans down while he kicked them off, still feeling his hesitation, his fear of hurting me—but I knew what he could do, what he was capable of, and I wanted all that too.

I wanted everything.

Pushing him back a little, I drew my legs up and slipped two fingers into the edges of my underwear, pulling them slowly down my body while he knelt before me, utterly still as I discarded them on the floor. Watching him, I pressed my legs apart with the palms of my hands, sitting slowly up and shaking my hair back. The hazel eyes met mine for the briefest instant, before I slid my fingers inside myself and heard his sharply indrawn breath, twitching between the desire to touch me and fascination with what I was doing for him.

Breathing harder, feeling his gaze on me, I pulled out, raising my hand to slide my wet fingers across his lips, his tongue instantly slicking over them, taking in the taste of me. Every nerve in my body was strung taut, before I felt the snap in him, the snap in me, when he caught my wrist, pinning it to the bed beside my hip, pushing my thighs farther apart and his mouth pressed between my legs.

"Oh God, yes," I heard myself gasp at the flood of raw sensation, as he braced a hand on my thighs, holding me open, tongue licking expertly along my clit, sliding down to push inside me. I arched my back at the feel, hearing my own breathing loud in the room, punctuated by his low growls of satisfaction. I sank my nails into the sheet beneath me, heels digging into the mattress, until everything condensed inside me—how I wanted this first time, what I wanted from it. Reaching down, I dug shaking fingers into his hair and he slowly pulled away with a nip that tightened everything almost to the snapping point.

"Please, Logan—"

I wasn't even sure anymore what I was asking for.

He understood, sliding up my body, rubbing against every supersensitized inch of my skin, his full weight covering me, hot and heavy and close between my legs before the first thrust that filled me completely, utterly, suspending thought, suspending fear, suspending everything but the feeling.

Everything that was touch, that was Logan, that was the utter impossible fantasy brought to technicolor life behind my closed eyes until I forced them open. I needed to see this; I needed to believe this.

I arched my back with every thrust, his hand tangled in my hair and mouth buried in my throat. Fucking me like he wanted to crawl inside me and stay there, like he wanted to imprint me with his body so everyone could see and know who I belonged to, like I was the only thing he'd ever wanted in his life. I pressed my nails into his back and locked my ankles together, gasping in breaths that weren't enough, pure pleasure white-hot through my body, every nerve registering off the scale.

I wanted to lose myself in him, because here and now, nothing else made a damn bit of sense. This was _mine_.

"Marie," he whispered against my ear, grinding into me hard enough to send a shock of hot pleasure through my body. "Baby, that's it...."

He was whispering more words against the skin of my shoulders, my throat, my cheek, my lips, words strung together, words that had power behind them. Words that were simple and direct and more true than anything anyone had ever said to me before in my life. How I felt and how I smelled and how he wanted me and needed me and owned me and would never let me go. He told me the things he wanted to do to me, the ways he wanted to mark me, and I said yes and held tighter, nails digging into his back to pull him as far into me as flesh would let me.

I knew it was coming, felt it quivering in every muscle of my body, every inch of sweat-slicked skin, his hand tightening in my hair with the first convulsive shudder, his eyes meeting mine and holding them when I threw my head back and whispered his name. He kissed me then, finishing with staccato thrusts into me and a low growl as the aftershocks of my orgasm consumed me.

And finally, we were utterly still, and I slowly lowered my trembling legs, wrapping an ankle around his calf to keep him close and running my hands in fascination down his sweat-slicked back and through his hair, wondering how on earth I'd ever lived without him.

"I love you," I whispered against his ear, his body covering me, mouth against my shoulder, still buried deep inside me; he was worked into every pore of my skin, every nerve, every thought. I'd never felt more alive in my life, more complete, more utterly at peace with myself.

I'd fucked up and knew it, knew I'd just bought myself hell on earth, and I didn't give a good damn.

* * *

"Are you hungry?"

Surreal, to say the least. Food wasn't something I remembered even existed and it took considerable effort to even try to figure out what he was talking about. Food. Hmm. Logan shifted a little and I muttered something unintelligible even to me, digging my nails into his chest. With a low chuckle, he settled back and let me continue my explorations.

Barely awake, I thought it might be near time to get up, but couldn't really be bothered. There was just so much of him, so much skin, and I couldn't get enough of touching him. He didn't seem to mind—let me spend hours exploring everything about him, finding out what he liked, what he didn't, the textures skin could be, the differences between his chest and his hip—

So far, he was on board with anything I wanted to try. And I was sore—God, I'd never been sore before, never like this. Even my legs ached.

"Not really." I lowered my head back to his chest, feeling his low, soft purr when I licked his skin, the mix of sweat and Logan and myself filling up my senses. A lazy hand twisted lightly in my hair, stroking through the tangled strands, letting me map him inch by inch with the tip of my tongue. Shutting my eyes, I laid my head down and let him stroke me softly, finding the sore muscles with the tips of his fingers and easing them into dull acceptance. Rolling me on my stomach, the strong hands worked gently over my shoulders and down my back, loosening muscles I hadn't even realized I'd tensed.

"When's the last time you ate?"

I had to think about that—bracing my head on one hand, I focused my eyes on him for a brief moment, then gave up trying to remember anything that didn't have to do with sex or him.

"No clue."

"Shit." Another long stroke of my hair, down to the small of my back, before he gently pushed me onto my back. "You're too thin to skip meals. Be right back."

I pouted a little and that earned me a grin.

"I've seen your refrigerator. The things in there don't qualify as food. Some of them have started moving." And duck l'orange just wasn't a food to wake up to. Just no way.

"You're cute, baby. I'm ordering in." A pause. "And calling in, unless there's some damn good reason you wanna go back to the school today."

"None at all." Stretching, I felt his eyes travel down my body—sheet be damned, I didn't want to cover myself ever again. It was amazing, the feel of sheets and skin against mine, the way I didn't have to be afraid. Logan grabbed his jeans from the floor, pulling them on quickly before going out the bedroom door in search of a phone, and I rolled on my side, drawing my knees up to my chest and concentrating on relaxing every muscle I'd ignored for the last few hours.

God, I'd forgotten that sex could make you sore as hell. It'd been a damned long time since I'd made love without invulnerability. And never with nothing but our skins between us. With a grin, I ran a hand down my side, wincing when I felt the reddened and abraded skin along thigh and stomach.

"Sore?" He was standing at the bedroom door, giving me a long look that took in my entire body. I stretched lightly, refusing to wince at the pull of the bruises on my back and the tension in my calves.

"Not enough to care. Come here, sugar." I had sex time to make up. Logan shook his head and I half sat up, rolling my shoulders a little. My back ached, my legs ached, and I—

"Oh _shit_," I gasped, sitting straight up and gaining a new variety of screaming muscles. "Oh God, I didn't—I can't believe—" I forgot. I totally, completely, where the fuck is your head, Marie? Logan frowned and crossed the room, dropping on the bed beside me and I felt his hand brush through my hair.

"Marie?"

"We didn't—" I took a breath, letting it out slowly. Had I not been talking about babies with Jean? Had I totally forgotten sex ed class? Was I an idiot? "I'm not on the pill—Logan, I—"

"Oh, that." Well, that was blase indeed. I jerked my head up and studied the unconcern on his face. Not expected. "Don't worry."

"Don't worry?" My voice rose an octave at very least and Logan grinned a little.

"Not the right time, baby."

I blinked.

"How would you know?"

He sighed softly, and his fingers dropped to the back of my neck, rubbing the muscles I'd just abused. I let him turn me around and the wonderful hands began to rework all the muscles I'd reknotted so quickly.

"Good sense of smell, good instincts, and basic biology. Don't worry."

I twisted my head around to look at him hopefully—come to think of it, I'd just gotten off my period. I restrained myself from asking if he'd picked that up as well. Some things I didn't want to know.

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Absolutely sure." He paused for a second, working the middle of my back and I moaned softly in relief. "We'll be more careful."

"Okay." I'd take it on faith. I'd also run a blood sample through Jeannie's lab—I'd get Kitty to help me out. It just didn't seem like a good idea for me to try and go to Jeannie's lab myself.

"Marie, take off the collar for awhile."

I frowned a little, trying to twist around again. Logan patted me on the back and got up, going to the dresser and picking up his gloves.

"I don't—"

"Marie, can you even walk?"

Oooh, good question. At some point today, I might need to walk. Couldn't imagine a damn thing that could make me leave this bed, but, well, it could happen. Frowning, I nodded reluctantly and he tossed me the key I'd left on the coffee table. Absently, I slipped it into the lock and let the collar fall off, wondering why Logan had put on his gloves and was reaching for his shirt—

"Marie, listen—"

Something hot tingled through me and my vision went dark—oh damn.

My entire body convulsed in shock, as my skin came back on with a vengeance, and a burning spread down every muscle of my body as invulnerability tried to catch up with the damage. I tried to breathe through it but couldn't even control the jerks of my body, before I felt something large and quite strong bear down on my wrists and shoulders. Strength was flowing back, but there was no control, and I wondered if I'd hurt him without even meaning to.

After endless minutes of pain-filled darkness, I slowly emerged into full consciousness to see Logan still straddling my body—shit, I could have seriously hurt him.

"You okay?" he asked, and I nodded numbly. Logan eased his grip on my wrists and sat back on his heels, still over my waist.

"Are you?" I sat up, almost colliding with him, and looked him over frantically. "Shit, sugar, I could have—I'm stronger than you and my skin—"

"Don't worry." Logan shook his head, dismissing my fears and cupping my face. "I've handled post-collar shock before. I was gonna warn you—" he ran his fingers over my face. "Extended periods of time has some weird fucking effects. Just lay down for a while—you might begin to itch a little. 'Stique was clawing her own skin during the worst of it."

I felt myself begin to tremble a little and Logan pressed me back, lowering himself down beside me and wrapping me up in the sheet carefully before his arms gently circled me, pulling me against him.

"That was after weeks, though. You'll be fine. If you feel itching, take a shower." Gently, he stroked my hair back. "Effects should wear off in less than an hour, so don't worry."

"Okay." I snuggled back against him, getting slightly sleepy—there was a light itching, but nothing I couldn't handle and almost subliminal. "I'm fine, sugar."

"Go to sleep." Another stroke of my face, before rolling me onto my other side and drawing me close. Shutting my eyes, I snuggled carefully against his covered chest as his hands slid comfortingly over my back.

* * *

"What are we doing here anyway?"

Leaving that bed, as far as I was concerned, was just damn silly. There was so much left to do, and we were here, doing—this. Damn. Most people might think thirty-six hours of sex was a little excessive. Most people weren't me. I was just warming up. And having a superhealing lover was something that should be required by law. All unwitting, I caught myself tracing his wrist with the tips of my nails through my gloves, and never had I resented my uncontrolled skin as much as at that moment. His fingers caught mine, squeezing lightly, and I tried not to pout at his half-hearted try at a frown.

God, I was obvious. Though of course, he'd been the one that delayed us in the garage for an extra ten minutes against the hood.

Logan shook his head at me and I skipped ahead, half turning to watch his face. He was very good about controlling his expression, but involuntary muscles had a life of their own. He gave away more with his lack of reaction than he sometimes did with a visible one. He didn't want to be here either. He'd much rather be comparing and contrasting the couch, the floor, and the kitchen table in terms of maximum sexual positioning potential.

So far, the table was winning, but only by two.

"I'm going to catch up on reassigning personnel. You're going to go train and look very, very interested in being a good little mutant. Allerdyce gonna go with you?"

I shook my head shortly and sighed.

"The Danger Room is boring, sugar."

"You like it."

"That's before someone worried about my safety locked me out of the upper ranges." I snorted. "It's boring."

I got a wolfish grin.

"Easy to override. Use my settings and shut down the safety protocols if you need to." Logan paused, coming to a stop and obviously thinking about what he'd just said. "Leave the comm open—if anything goes wrong, I can shut it down with a verbal command."

"You'll be in your office?"

"Yeah. Mostly."

Logan had an office. Just strange. I waited for him to join me at the steps and his fingers wrapped through mine.

"You have a weird look on your face, baby."

"Just the concept of you in an office fazes me a bit. Give me time. Paperwork. Just—" I waved a hand in the air vaguely—it _was_ dizzying in weird ways. Logan and paperwork—it would be like Scott choosing to become a rock star or Kurt taking up a life of celibacy. Just not—well, in character. Logan flashed me a grin.

"I don't do it. I just look at it."

"Turn it into confetti."

"When I can get away with it, oh yeah."

We grinned at each other as we walked inside and I handed off my coat to a norm near the door. Up ahead, Kitty was coming down the stairs and stopped as she saw us, a smile turning up her mouth.

"Marie, where you been?"

Logan dropped a kiss on my head and tossed Kitty a grin before he walked off. I tried not to watch him too long, but Kitty was beside me before I could manage to look away. He had a provocative walk. Well, damn, he had a provocative way of breathing. Hey, Marie, you are seriously losing it.

"Uh-huh." Kitty smirked and I felt a flush creep up my face. "That's an interesting color." Her gaze went to Logan with a slight grin. "He's looking perky." Heh. Logan perky. There was some impossible imagery. "You busy?"

I thought about it, and about the digital phone Logan had tucked into my jacket pocket that morning. He was so cute when he was worried. Hmm—Kitty or the Danger Room? Wow, wasn't that easy to answer.

"Not really. You need something?"

"The Salem Complex Director called. They had an accident and need a medic—Jean's on assignment, so they asked for me."

Surprised, I met the dark eyes.

"You're medical?" In retrospect, not a huge surprise—she'd always been into hard sciences.

Kitty shrugged as she got her jacket from the hands of a young boy I didn't recognize and pulled it on, reaching down for her bag he put at her feet. I took my coat back without comment and slid it on, feeling the leather brush heavily over the backs of my calves with very feminine pleasure. I really liked this coat.

"I got paramedic training during the war," she said as she pulled the pack over her shoulder. She looked me over. "I didn't have another—useful skill other than infiltration and hacking, so—" she shrugged a little. "When I was needed, I was called. Logan said he armed you—"

I nodded in surprise, pulling back the folds of my coat so she could see. She nodded quickly.

"Good. Bobby and Johnny are on assignment too, and we're not allowed unaccompanied into the camp proper." Pulling her hair back, she fastened it away from her face and I watched as she checked through the pack quickly before nodding to the door.

"They don't have guards?"

Kitty's expression was oddly fixed for a second—it dawned on me that she was uncomfortable.

"Lensherr made the assignments to Salem Complex, not Logan." She hesitated. "They're not very—easy to be around." Pushing the door open, we emerged outside into the bright sunlight. "Logan sent my car back with new tires," she said conversationally as we approached the garage. "Something about bad roads."

I flushed but didn't comment at her little grin, and I wondered if she knew why she'd lost a tire—or two.

"All right," I answered and felt the weight of my gun against my side. It was comforting, and that worried me a little.

Guns shouldn't be comforting.

* * *

I was glad I remembered my ID, and even gladder that the director wasn't someone I'd met before my interesting hair color change. Captain Reherr wasn't in evidence—even better—and the tower was nicely full of people paying no attention to us.

"Sorry to call you down here, Ms Pryde," the director said. He was a big man in a way I couldn't quite understand—because he didn't look big. He _felt_ big. He speared me with a glance that was supposed to be intimidating and definitely was. I tried not to draw back. "I'll assign you an escort—"

"This is Marie Danvers," Kitty said quickly, and there was a definite trace of nervousness in her voice. "She'll accompany me."

His look was speaking. I'd never looked terribly intimidating even on my best days, I was well aware of that. Even in uniform, I was usually pegged as the weakest of the lot, and it was true in a lot of ways before Carol and I had met. It was oh-so not true now. His gaze slid over me, lingering on the butt of the gun I made sure was visible. I forced myself to stay still under his gaze.

"Ms Pryde—"

"Marie is more than capable of watching out for me, sir. Thank you." Kitty's voice was cool and firm in the face of his presence, and I wondered how she managed it. I waited as the director hesitated, then he stepped back, entering a series of codes into the doorway before removing something from his jacket and dropping it into Kitty's reluctant hand. A comm, I guessed.

"If an emergency arises, please call." Another glance at me, frankly contemptuous. I wondered idly how much effort it would take to slam him into the floor. Not much. "Go on ahead."

"Thank you." As quickly as possible, Kitty opened the wide metal door and walked out, and I followed, keeping my eye on the director before the door closed between us. Then I turned around to face Kitty and got my second view of Salem Complex.

Seeing it from the outside had been one thing. I took a breath, trying not to throw up at the smell.

"It's retaliatory," Kitty said softly, and a movement of her hand brought my gaze to the oblong pits in the ground. "They dug the latrines on this side to annoy the director. Every time he moves towers, so do these." She covered her mouth with a handkerchief pulled from her pocket and I wished she'd warned me. Lifting my sleeve to my nose, I took in the comforting smell of expensive leather. "Come on. Let's get in and out."

My Kitty memories were shifting. Kitty was nervous around humans.

I nodded in complete understanding to her statement and also to distract my stomach. I was certain the director was watching. Glancing around, I caught the video cameras stationed on the posts of the fence. Looking out through the wire, I watched the quiet street and remembered standing outside looking in. Directionally, this wasn't the same side of the camp I'd seen.

"It's quiet," I said softly. Kitty nodded, letting down the cloth over her mouth after we'd gone thirty feet.

"Yeah. No one wants attention drawn to themselves, as you can imagine. They're in section A, so it should be—" she turned, feet keeping off the ruined remains of the sidewalk and skipping the chunks of concrete and twisted metal effortlessly. "—over here. I think this is the right apartment block."

I nodded and followed where she led. She was definitely familiar with the area.

"You come here often?"

Kitty's shudder was almost imperceptible.

"With Jean, sometimes, when there's been serious cases."

Picking my way through dead grass and carelessly strewn rocks, we went in between several buildings and onto what was once a road that separated two different apartment complexes. No way to drive this sucker—it was something of an accomplishment to get around the twisted hunks of metal and through broken glass, and I was tempted to pick Kitty up and fly us straight there. Turning my head, I saw the twisted pole that had once carried the name of this street and tried to get the name, but the dark green sign was blackened beyond readability.

"What happened in here?"

Kitty, semi-safely on the other side, gave me a confused look. I motioned with one gloved hand and almost fell over a chunk of something that seemed vaguely asphaltic. Well, damn. Pushing up, I hovered and flew to her side.

"Forgot you could fly," Kitty said with a strained smile. Every nerve in her body seemed notched too tight—I felt her memories move in me and sympathized. I shrugged once both booted feet were groundward again, glad to see I was getting better at landings. "What do you mean, what happened?"

I motioned around the area, and her blank expression didn't change.

"The decay. The—well, roads." I looked at a gutted set of buildings about a hundred feet to my left and shuddered.

"Oh." Kitty shrugged. "When we took back the school, there was a lot of collateral damage."

"Collateral damage?"

"Scott wanted to level Salem Center, Lensherr didn't. This was the compromise." She picked her delicate way to the remains of a fairly decent sidewalk that ran between two red-brick buildings and waited for me to reach her. "Scott didn't want a camp situated so close to the School, but he saw Lensherr's reasoning, that the most dangerous war criminals needed to be kept near the most powerful alphas."

Okay, that sounded very wrong.

"Salem Complex isn't for criminals—I thought it was for the Polaris Project."

Kitty's gaze slid to mine and held with a perfect attention that almost made me squirm. I should have kept my damned mouth shut. After a second, though, Kitty merely shrugged.

"It's the same thing—the ones here are the ones that are most dangerous to us. The ones that could still cause the most problems. Leaders of the FoH, several countries that aren't officially aligned with us, scientists who worked the experimental camps, people we can't afford to let free. Either of us or against us."

The lines drawn sharp in the ground. Here or there. Mutant or criminal. No such thing as neutral.

"One of you or against you," I heard myself say, understanding suddenly what Logan had been trying to tell me in his oblique way. An automatic assumption of guilt if you weren't born mutant. Those kids in the camp suddenly made immense amounts of sense. They were enemies because of the genes in their body.

Kitty was already too far ahead to have heard me, and shaking myself, I skipped to catch up as she made a right. The entire place was creepily quiet, and my hand itched to take out my gun and have it in hand for any emergency. No place housing upwards of ten thousand people was this damn quiet.

Ducking past the burned-out stump of a tree, I watched Kitty slowly approach a building almost at random. The porch was once, I thought, elegant white-painted wood. Half was missing, and the concrete of the floor was blackened and burned into almost nothing more than fragmented char. The front window was taped over, and even after several seconds of study, I couldn't quite see inside. After a second, I figured it out.

The window was blackened. Turning on a heel, I looked up and around, trying to make out whether or not the others were as well.

_—Blackening. For bombing.—_ Logan's voice was thoughtful.

_—You're thinking of Amsterdam, aren't you, sugar?—_

Logan's pause was telling. I waited as Kitty went to the door and an elegantly gloved hand rapped lightly, jerking away from the splintered wood as quickly as possible, as if it would contaminate her through her gloves.

_—Yeah. Britain and Amsterdam. Blackened the windows, hide the light inside, if these people even have light.—_

I doubted it, blinking around me for a few long minutes as Logan watched through my eyes.

_—Bombing? Is she right?—_

_—A little.—_ Logan sounded strange, and I wondered, with a sort of blank horror, if he was going to comment on my extracurricular activities with Alternate Logan. —_Some of this, though... Some of this isn't from a bomb. It was done deliberately.—_

_—You think the residents vandalized their own home?—_ That seemed sort of weird.

_—No, I think mutants vandalized it as a reminder and a warning. Bombing wouldn't do all of this. This is systematic destruction, carefully thought out. Homes without windows, doors without privacy, and life without modern conveniences. It's good psychology to reduce the enemy to inferiority in their own minds. Makes for easier handling.—_

"Marie?"

"Huh?" I jerked back into the here and now to see Kitty waiting patiently for me beside the now-open door. Her voice had been level, but I could pick up the edges in it—no, Kitty didn't want to be here, not at all, and I was suddenly tasting the lab with her, feeling rough hands on my body. Shivering, I gathered my thoughts close and crossed the bare dirt before stepping up on the concrete of the porch and following her inside.

There were _way_ too many people crowded into a small space and my hand went for my gun, out and safety clicked off before I even got a good look at the room.

_—Shit, Marie, what the hell are you doing?—_

Ignoring Inner Logan, I turned my full attention to the people around me, counting them and how many the Glock could handle. Breathing evenly, I felt Kitty's hand on my arm.

"It's—okay." Through her hand, I could feel her heart pounding, was only surprised I couldn't hear it as well. "They've been checked for weapons, Marie. Come on—in the bedroom."

I nodded but kept my eye on the people. At least fifteen, maybe twenty, and the smell of unwashed norm was too damn strong for my nose to handle. I took a shortened breath and let Kitty lead me to the room, keeping my gun out but down as we picked our way across a bare concrete floor and a variety of threadbare blankets and worn pillows. I didn't want to turn my back on them, so I kept my back to the hall wall, Kitty in my line of sight, the people in the living room in peripheral.

The smell of their fear was strong enough to worry me. Scared people were highly dangerous people.

Finally, we were led into a small bedroom and Kitty shut and locked the door behind us as our guide withdrew. A young girl was laying on the bed, her mother seated beside her.

Blue eyes came up to meet mine before skittering submissively to my collar and I recognized her. Vivid blue eyes, her daughter's brown hair, and the look of terror that cut me to the heart. Suddenly, the gun seemed horribly huge and out of place, and I tucked it back into my holster, checking the safety.

Kitty was still standing beside me, unmoving.

"What's wrong with her?"

The woman's eyes tore from me—did she recognize me without the fence between us?—and slid to Kitty's waist.

"Fever. She cut her foot outside and we haven't been able to make it heal."

That had to be a real danger—infection was so prevalent, so very damn possible in conditions like this. These people needed shoes badly. Kitty nodded slowly, flipping into a cool expression I'd seen Jean utilize with patients before in my world.

The little girl's head lifted a little, her mother's clear eyes looked back at me. I took a breath, trying to tune out the smells of the room. Something was wrong here. I didn't smell fever—and I'd had Logan's senses often enough to know it. Kitty was already moving slowly toward her, bag in hand, and I reached out a second too late to stop her.

She knelt by the bed, back to the door for the first time, and I spun around just in time to watch the door splinter open and a gloved hand curled around my throat. Latex. No fingerprints.

Clever.

I heard Kitty's startled scream and even from the floor where I'd been thrown, I could smell her hysteria taking over. She should be able to phase right out of their hands. And there was no way in hell she'd know to do it. I went limp, letting rough hands grab my arms and jerk me upright.

"Christ, Michael, you think this'll work?" Something covered my eyes—I hated that—and I took a short breath, bringing all my senses on-line. Kitty was in front of me and to my left, less than ten feet away when I started, but a spin killed my sense of direction until the wall collided with my back. She was—I gritted my teeth at the fear in the room, hers mixing into it, and my Kitty memories told me what I could expect from her now. She wouldn't be able to do a damn thing.

"It's gotta—they want their bitches back in one piece, they'll negotiate."

"You trust Summers that much?"

There was a coarse laugh somewhere above me.

"This one's fucking Logan—he already killed three of his own for touching her. He'll negotiate."

Shit. Lucas. How rumors build. That little son of a bitch had a lot to answer for now. I bit my lip, jerked up against the wall, and tried to pinpoint Kitty and decide how many were in the room. My gun was gone, but the knife at my thigh was still comfortingly uncomfortable. Me getting away would be a piece of cake. Getting an hysterical Kitty out was going to be all kinds of tricky.

"So how we going to do this?"

Yes, how _did_ they think this was going to work? Kidnapping and hostage situations ran into two big categories, and usually ended one of two ways—either these guys were going to die, or these guys, me, and Kitty were going to die. Assuming they figured out a way around the double threat of my skin, that was. Assuming Kitty didn't get past her hysteria and phase her ass out so I could get away on my own. Shit, I should have been watching more closely. Unforgivably stupid not to keep more alert.

I could feel Carol in my mind, following the train of my thoughts.

_—You should be able to take out at least the ones closest to you.—_

_—And they'll still have Kitty and can use her as a threat against me. Plus, I'll lose the element of surprise. I'm fast, chica, but not fast enough, not when I can't see where she is. I can't even be sure where the damn window outta here is, and she might not survive me knocking through the ceiling on my way out.—_

So far, none of the idiots had touched my bare skin. That might have been good or bad in the situation—I didn't feel the need to risk it yet. Something cold and metal was around my hands, jagged edges pushing at my skin. Homemade handcuffs of some sort. Necessity was the mother of invention and all that.

_—There were twenty in that outer room, but I can't be sure more didn't come through. Shit, I hate this. I hate it.—_

Kitty's tiny choked gasp was enough. I straightened and a hand knotted in my hair, jerking my head back. Hot air rasped against my ear, smelling of rotting chicken and dead vegetation, strangely familiar. I'd never eat again at this rate.

"Strength and flying," one said softly. "There's a gun against your friend's pretty little head. Don't try any tricks, Miss Danvers, and all will be fine."

"You think you'll survive?" I asked, equally soft. I knew that voice. Where the hell had I heard it?

"If we don't, the world will be thankfully less two mutant whores."

I followed the sound of him. Scent was familiar. It was sunny and we were standing outside. He was handing me—

"John Andrews," I heard myself say. He gave me my money and escaped the guard my first day. That seemed too long ago, a memory almost faded to black and white in my mind. Almost not even me. How weird.

A vise-like grip closed over my jaw—and invulnerable or not, he could break my neck through my skin easily and even I couldn't move fast enough to stop him. I waited, his fetid breath panting in my face. Kitty was scarily silent—I didn't have any time left.

"Shit, Andrews, how the fuck does she know you?"

I was thinking faster than I ever had before. I leaned into his grip, taking a short breath through my sadly constricted windpipe, and blindly turned my head toward the sound of the voice.

"He knows me, don't you John?"

There was more movement, the sounds of someone coming toward us—there were three around me, maybe more in the room, but I had to get an inkling of where Kitty was. She'd been by the bed, that'd be to the front left. I hadn't heard any sounds of dragging, so she was probably on the floor somewhere over there. Hissed conversations made it impossible to figure her out by the unique sound of her heartbeat and breathing.

"I don't know you," he hissed, jerking me closer, and the blindfold was beginning to slip. Better and better. I kept my body limp as he pulled me closer. "I never saw you before that night in the ghetto."

He'd been there. He'd seen—I swallowed in a dry throat, remembering the feel of that building against my back and that little bastard against me. They'd seen—they'd seen and they hadn't cared.

He'd been close enough to see my face. I gingerly twisted a wrist and the metal bent before me. Almost. Almost there, make it a shock, a surprise, because there was only one chance or the hostage situation would end with Kitty's death. Not going to happen.

"You saw that little bastard attack me?" I whispered.

"Yeah. Thought you were human, didn't they, walking alone in the ghetto? I knew you weren't. I watched you drive up to look around and enjoy your moment of superiority." His voice was rich with hate and fear, wrapping around me like fog.

"Would you have tried to stop them if I'd been a norm?"

"Yes." The hand tightened on my chin. "Not for you, though. Who cares what happens to a mutie bitch?"

The blindfold came loose from my face and I met the clearly written hatred in the eyes before me. Hate was frightening when you were the subject of it. Hate was good when you were feeling it yourself, and it fueled the rage in my voice, soft and low so no one else could hear. I wanted this to be John Andrew's little message alone.

"Then why should I give a fuck about you?"

Both my hands were free and I jerked them out, knocking him backwards into the far wall. The others drew back—knowing someone was strong and seeing her knock a two hundred pound man with a flick of the wrist was two very different things. Hesitation—just what I was waiting for. I speared the location of the window with a glance, then the broken door, then Kitty curled in a tiny ball on the floor with a gun forgotten against her head. Taking to the air, I kicked out at a random head, trying not to do too much damage to an unarmed norm, but for a moment I almost didn't restrain the kick. They weren't armed, weren't suited up, and I couldn't toss my training away that easily, no matter how badly I wanted to hurt him. Ducking easily, I landed beside Kitty and hooked both hands under her arms and pulling her close to my body as we floated backward out the window in a beautifully controlled tumble. Glass brushed harmlessly against my skin and I landed on my ass on the ground just outside, Kitty practically catatonic in my arms.

Shit. Where the hell were we?"

I could hear the sounds from inside, people coming toward the window, shouting for help. Hauling Kitty over my shoulder, I flew upward—nothing like flying as the deus ex machina of an escape, that was for certain. Kitty's limp hands banged on my back and I hoped to God her jacket kept her waist covered from my neck.

Taking a hovering stance, I looked around the complex and saw a tower very close. Latrines nearby. That's the one.

The soldier on duty in the upper room of the tower turned around and almost screamed to see me hovering in his line of sight. A gun almost came out before good sense took over.

"Umm—"

"You mind letting me in? We have a bit of a situation here," I answered, flicking Kitty's weight more evenly on my shoulder.

He gulped.

* * *

I'd never seen Scott Summers mad before.

I'd seen him irritated, angry, frustrated, annoyed, and a whole host of negative-connotated verbs, and I'd thought I'd seen them all. When Magneto escaped his plastic prison five years before—when Mystique impersonated Jean and seduced Logan, or Logan seduced her (and that was an event I still didn't feel comfortable thinking about)—when we mourned the death of Morph—when we listened to the anti-mutant rhetoric of one of our own turned against us—they'd brought out facets of him I'd never known existed.

It was like comparing a light summer shower to a thunderstorm, though. Not even in the same zip code.

Sitting in a corner of the tower's bottom floor, I watched in fascination as Scott paced the length of the room while the Director, blanched and without a single word in his defense, waited for Scott come down. The room seemed suddenly tiny and cramped, filled to the limit and beyond with the sheer power Scott emanated like heat off his body. Not his mutation, not just his authority, just—just him. This was a Scott Summers I'd never seen before, all the strength of the Scott I'd known in my world unleashed completely and absolutely, reminding every person in the room that he was the final authority in the end. Magneto might run the school, Mystique might run the country, but he was the man that led the X-Men, the enforcers of the new regime, and he was the man that had led the mutants to victory over the norms. He was the living, breathing embodiment of mutantkind itself and everyone in that room knew it in their very bones.

I couldn't help but stare at him, in utter and complete awe.

"Execute them," Scott said finally, in a low, even voice that sent shivers down my spine. Logan, standing just behind my chair, closed a hand on my shoulder before I could begin to think of anything to say. "Publicly. This will not happen again. This will _not_ become an example for others to copy. I want it recorded and sent to every single camp in the country. Do you understand me, Director?" He turned on the big man, who looked small and rather flat compared to Scott now.

"Yes, sir."

"Everyone involved is to be brought before me within the next four hours." Scott's voice dropped even lower, raising the hairs on the back of my neck and along my arms. "According to Marie, there were at least twenty people in that apartment—bring them out and anyone suspected of being a part of this. Anyone even _breathing_ near that area is to be questioned and given to Jeannie and Betsy immediately. Have I made myself clear?"

The Director nodded and snapped orders to two white-faced guards behind him, who were already making for the stairs like grey rabbits, desperately glad, I supposed, to get out of the room and from under the sheer weight of Scott's power. I knew how they felt. The visored gaze turned on me and stayed there for a few long minutes, and I leaned back into Logan without even being aware I was doing it.

I'd never feared Scott Summers before. I did now.

"Jean needs your memories, Marie," he said softly. I jerked up, knocking my chair over, and Logan's hands closed over my arms before I could do anything else. Those men in that apartment had annoyed me—but this was worse. I'd rather be there still than locked in this room with a pissed off Scott. I'd rather be with a pissed-off Scott than trapped in a room with a powerful telepath, but only marginally. I didn't think even Scott Summers in this incantation could break me.

But Jean Grey, telepath and telekinetic, whose power danced along my skin at every meeting, very well might.

"No, Summers."

Scott's hot gaze fixed on Logan for a minute, then he raised a hand, flickering it in dismissal of those surrounding us.

"Everyone out. Now."

The room cleared so fast it was as if everyone teleported someplace else. I didn't blame them. Logan gently freed my arms and upended the chair, setting me down before my knees went out.

"Logan, don't ever contradict my orders in front of subordinates. You know chain of command as well as I do."

There was a hot, tense silence between them, and I leaned into the chair as if I could sink inside it and never come out. If Jean got in my head, she'd know something was up. She'd know that the story of Marie Danvers didn't match the mind. I took a shaking breath, letting it out, as Logan casually stepped in front of me—I could just see Scott around him.

"Don't give orders you know I'm against. Marie hasn't done anything that requires telepathic interference and you know it. She was attacked, same as Kitty, and she got herself and Kitty out. I'm not subjecting her to that."

Scott stared into him until I wondered if the beams would break free of ruby quartz just from the intensity of that look.

"This isn't negotiable. We need to know who and what, Logan."

"I'll question her."

"It won't be the same as living memory."

"No, it won't. But it'll be just as accurate." Logan's hands were relaxed at his sides. There might have been nothing more exciting going on than a discussion of automotive parts.

"Why don't you want Jean in her mind, Logan?" Scott seemed to have forgotten I was there—or maybe he didn't care anymore. "Normal procedure on entering the school is a voluntary mental scan and complete physical. You've blocked both. I want to know what's in her head that you don't want anyone else to know, even Jean."

I sucked in a breath, saw Scott's gaze arrow on me. Suspicion naked across his face, the first time he'd let me see it so completely. He was past the point of being subtle. Dear God.

"It's her head, her privacy, hers alone. It belongs to her, like her body, and she has the right to both and what's done with them." Logan's voice was painfully even, like the solid edge of cut glass. A slip and you'd cut yourself badly, no matter how smooth it looked. "That's what we fought for, isn't it, Summer? That freedom? She's free to say no. She's given us no reason to doubt her intentions or her allegiances, so we don't have the right to force telepathic rape on her."

Scott's entire face froze.

"That's low, Logan."

"It's what it is with an unwilling mind. You know it, Jeannie knows it. Using pretty words to cover it up with doesn't change what it is."

"It won't hurt her. You know better than to think Jean—"

"I know exactly what it is." Logan tapped his head. "I remember. And I know what it feels like to have the privacy of your mind taken. I've had seven years to remember it."

Shaking, I stared up at Logan, forgetting Scott. God. He was talking about me. About my mutation. Wrapping my arms around my waist, I lowered my head onto my knees. I'd never asked how it felt to someone else, how they felt when I pulled out their mind through their skin. I'd never wanted to know.

I heard Scott's soft breathing.

"Logan, tell me you're not being blind."

"Tell me that seven years of trust is worthless weighed against one choice."

That was laying down the line and I waited it out, the voices in my head as silent as the room.

"Send me a report." Not defeat—another quality in the even voice. Frustration, still anger, but more than that, there was faith in that voice. He believed Logan, believed unquestioningly in Logan's loyalty. Whatever he thought of me, he believed in his friend and team member and second in command. He believed Logan would never betray him, and he didn't know that Logan was doing that, just by protecting me.

God, this was so fucking complex, more than I'd ever imagined. I'd made it this way.

"I'll bring it to you personally," Logan answered, and I heard the sound of footsteps as Scott left the room, going up the stairs to finish with the camp guards. I felt Logan come over, crouching beside me, gloved hands gentle in my hair.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, unable to look at him, at what I was making him do. This wasn't Logan—it wasn't him, to do this, to be this person. No matter where we were, Logan took loyalty seriously.

"Nothing to be sorry for." Carefully, fingers worked under my face and lifted it, and I saw nothing but worry written in the clear hazel. Worry and support and so much emotion that I threw myself out of the chair and buried my head against his jacket, shutting my eyes tight. "Everything's okay, Marie. I promise."

I didn't do anything but hold on and Logan simply stood up, letting my feet drop naturally to the floor. I lifted my head and tried to get control of myself.

"Can we go home now?" I whispered finally, leaning into the leather of his jacket.

"Right now."

* * *

Telepathic rape.

Energy absorption, memory transfer, mutational mimicry—pretty words like clean linen covering the filthy truth, the real definition of what I was. It all came down to that—I pressed my bare skin against bare skin and sucked their essence through me, into me, taking what they considered most sacred, most debased, most beautiful, most private. What was never meant for any thoughts but their own became mine to study and search through at my leisure, to mock with friends or enjoy in the privacy of my room.

I had no right to know how Kitty had felt against that lab wall—all her humiliation, her embarrassment and pain and sick fear. I had no right, none at all, no more than I would have to put a camera in Scott and Jean's room to tape them having sex. The ultimate invasion of privacy, and inevitable, simply because of what I was.

I stumbled into the bedroom and found the collar, pulling it on and crouching by the bedside table as it took effect.

"Marie?"

Distantly, I heard him come in, warm hands on my shoulders, and I tried to fight him—oops, see, power's off, Marie. Can't do that, can't be that. A finger traced the collar.

"It's what I told Scooter, isn't it?"

Lifting me gently, he sat on the bed, pulling me into his lap. I couldn't look at him—hadn't been able to look at him in the car either, curled inside my own misery and guilt.

I was doing this—me. I was the mental rapist and the one that was making Logan betray himself with every word and breath. I thought I had problems in my world—oh, poor Marie, she can't touch anyone, it fucks up her head so badly, poor baby. No shit. Poor person who touches me, see what the fuck I can do to you? I can take more from you than you know you have. I should never be allowed to touch anyone, ever. I should have been locked in that plastic prison with Magneto—dear God, how could Logan bear to touch me? How? How could anyone look at me and not _see_ that, feel it in their bones?

"Marie, it's not what you think."

"Tell me you were lying to Scott." I dug my fingers into my thighs, feeling his breath deep in his chest, then the soft rumble of an exhale. "You weren't. That night—in your room—when I touched you, it was like that, wasn't it? I was—I was taking your mind from you. Ripped it out and stole what—" I choked. The implications I'd never considered staggered me, and I tried to jerk away from him, unable to bear the feel of his skin against mine. The strong arms tightened. "How can you stand to touch me?"

"I love you, so it's not that hard." My breath caught at the words, but he went on. "Marie, you didn't want to hurt me when you did that."

"Doesn't make it any less a violation, though, does it?"

"It's one I don't mind remembering, one I'd do again without question." His hands slid below my jaw, tilting my head up to meet his eyes, feel how serious he was. "Without question, without hesitation, Marie. None. It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"I know." He brushed his lips across mine, lightly—no danger with the collar, nothing to hurt him with, all dangerous skin turned safe. I turned in his arms, pushing him back on the bed and attacking his mouth, my tongue sliding along his lips until they opened under mine.

There were a thousand different flavors I couldn't possibly map all on my own, but I tried every time. Slick with smoky richness, like whiskey and chocolate and cigars, but better. Not sweet, but strong. The way his tongue slid around mine, circling it, pushing by into my mouth until I wasn't sure where either of us ended in the other. Not breaking the kiss, I unbuttoned his jeans, working a gloved hand between us until I had enough space to circle him with my hand. He bit the tip of my tongue, drawing a low moan out of my throat, and I tried to get deeper, all the way inside him so I didn't ever have to come out again and see what I was.

I'd taken so much from him—memories, my younger self, his own ethics, forcing him to betray those that trusted him. I'd died once and this world had been the result. I'd come back, and now I'd see if I could finish destroying him completely. God, I wasn't any better than the norms.

"I love you," I said, tearing myself away from the addiction of his mouth. He reached up, cupping my face, and I shook my head on the words he was about to say, words that would give me an absolution I had no right to. "Just you, only you. I love you." Ducking my head, eyes closed, I ran my tongue down his jaw, to the side of his throat, digging my teeth into the spot just where the shoulder met the neck, feeling him groan beneath me. Jerking his shirt up, he let me pull it off him and I buried my mouth against his shoulder, nipping the warm skin and hard muscle beneath and feeling his shudder of reaction. Frantically, I worked my way down his chest, biting each nipple until his hands were tight in my hair, licking and sucking down his stomach, pushing his jeans off his hips and taking him in my mouth in one swallow.

He was impressed—his hips arched off the bed and I braced a hand on either side of us. Breathing hard, the fingers in my hair loosened a finger at a time, and I slid my teeth lightly up the length until I only held the head in my mouth, sucking softly, before pushing back down again. He was saying something to me—no idea what, no idea why, I could only hear my heart pound against my ribs while he twisted underneath me. I lifted myself on my knees, using my tongue to tickle another line up his cock until he began to shake under me. I slid one gloved hand down to run lightly across his balls, cupping them gently and squeezing with every thrust of my mouth, feeling them tighten—so close, he was trying to make it last, but I wanted to push him all the way over, wipe out everything resembling thought. Licking around the head, I dragged my teeth until I had him all and swallowed, felt him shudder again, then sucked.

He let go with a growl that echoed in my head, and I pulled back and held on until he was finished, swallowing quickly, then slowly, slowly letting him out, running my tongue slowly over my lips. Looking up, I met the blazing hazel eyes and crawled up his body, dragging my skin against his.

Our eyes were centimeters apart, and I licked along his lips, kissing him so he could taste himself in my mouth.

"Take me," I whispered, sharing his sharply indrawn breath as I lowered myself over him, my jeans an exquisite abrasion for us both. "All of me."

The claws slid out, cutting through my jeans with perfect coordination, and I felt the warm almost-brush of them against my skin. My shirt next, and I threw my head back as his hands slid up my body, the metal sliding with them. My bra was unfastened with a sharp cut across the back. Fingertips stroking the tips of my breasts, the line of my shoulders, down my arms and I shut my eyes as he sat up, his lips touching the skin over my heart softly.

"Marie, I love you. Nothing else means shit."

That made it even worse, in some strange part of my mind. Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I bit into my lip when his mouth slid over my breasts, teasing a nipple into painfully hard erection, his hands braced on my shoulderblades, the metal of his claws just brushing my hair. I moved my hips slowly against his, feeling him harden underneath me, a soft growl reverberating around my breast, bringing up goosebumps all over my skin. One of his hands slid down the length of my back and the metal tip of the claws followed, barely brushing, unbelievably erotic. A single cut through my underwear and they were so much shredded silk, like the remains of the cotton shirt and denim pieces scattered around us, and both hands lifted my hips, dragging his erection slowly across the wet heat between my legs. I heard myself moan softly, my nails digging into his shoulders through my gloves.

"Please, Logan—"

He brought my hips down hard, all at once, and my entire body went stiff at the feel of him filling me, stretching me, tears burning behind my eyes as every nerve in my body went into overload. With a moan, I buried my head against his shoulder as he rocked me slowly—too slowly—and the long fingers were sliding over every inch of my skin, rubbing circles into my thighs, his mouth soft and warm against my throat. His hand on the back of my neck turned my head, and he captured my mouth, pushing inside as completely as he'd entered my body. The hand on my hips went to my back as my hips took up the rhythm he'd set, kneading into my flesh, pushing me closer and closer to that moment when every knot in my body would release, and I pulled my mouth away, gasping in a breath before he withdrew the claws and eased that hand between us and rubbed my clit.

"Oh God....."

It was a slurred whisper, everything coming apart all at once—my entire body went stiff as my orgasm crashed over me, a coiled burst of heat that seemed to tingle in my fingertips. Both hands closing on my hips, he pushed me harder, sending aftershocks through me that brought whimpers from between my clenched teeth, until I felt him release, a hot liquid burst and a shudder running through the body pressed against mine. I clutched him with muscles gone utterly strengthless, felt him ease us back down on the mattress, and shut my eyes tight, burying my head against his neck.

"Beautiful Marie," he breathed against my hair, arms tightening around me. "My beautiful Marie."

* * *

Hank was shifting uncomfortably on the couch—I wasn't sure if his sensitive nose had picked up what Logan and I had been doing only a half hour before, or the fact that the news he carried was less than hopeful.

"I don't know why it happened," he said finally, and he handed me the folder, full of equations I had no idea of the meaning of, scribbled notes in Hank-specific shorthand that might as well have been a foreign language for all the sense the made to me. Blankly, I turned the pages, looking at the strings of numbers and letter combinations that didn't resemble any math I'd ever heard of.

"Nothing?" Logan asked from behind me. Something warm was placed in my hand and I took a drink of coffee without taking my eyes from the papers. I felt him sit down on the arm of the chair, arm pressed to my shoulder as he looked over the notes spread over my lap.

"I think I understand the—connection," Hank said slowly, and both Logan and I looked up instantly. He almost drew away, and I wondered why, before the big hands settled in his lap, twitching with suppressed energy. "The machine is the original, not the rebuild we thought it was."

I looked up at Logan, who was staring at Hank as if the bigger man had grown wings and proposed flying to the moon.

"I cut that thing into pieces, Hank."

Hank shrugged a little.

"The elements it was composed of—titanium and platinum, amongst other common metals—are rare but not difficult to locate with Erik's resources. I checked several times—the seam lines on the machine are invisible to the naked eye, but not impossible to detect. I would guess that Erik's associates returned to retrieve the pieces. It is the same machine, and Rogue—the Rogue who died here—was the only person besides Erik to use it's absorption properties. I suspect that this has something to do with it."

"You mean—you mean it's attuned to me?" I shut my eyes briefly, then looked back down at the notes. Once I figured out what they meant, there was a good chance they'd make more sense than Hank's strange hypothesis.

"Yes. Or not to you—but to your counterpart, who died here. Who you are a perfect duplicate of, if the blood tests Logan allowed me to run are accurate, and they should be." Well, I'd expect nothing less from Hank. "It absorbed you—"

"It absorbed Magneto's power through me," I said shortly. "It was—"

"You. Your power and Magneto's power. Which goes far to back up my hypothesis that it was your power that the machine needed to complete the changes—a mutant's DNA who was flexible enough to incorporate the changes that Erik's machine forced on human kind."

Logan and I, I was certain, had identical dog-watching-Jeopardy expressions on our faces. Hank sighed a little, running a hand through his hair before settling down again with a determined expression.

"Think of the machine as a form of what you do yourself, Marie—absorbing, storing mutation, but in the way of a large battery. It converted Erik's magnetism into a controlled wave of forced DNA mutation. When you were added—"

"When I was added, I—what?"

"Sent a second part through, allowing the human DNA to accept the changes, as your body accepts the changes that occur to you when you touch another mutant. In your world and in our world, Senator Kelley died because his body could not remain stable with the change in basic DNA. Your power, when added to Magneto's, gave those humans exposed to the wave your ability to absorb mutation without physical damage."

Dear God.

"But I don't keep it. It—the borrowed mutation—fades, without the death of the host—" I stopped, drawing in a breath sharply. "My death. I was the host."

Hank nodded slowly, dark eyes fixed on mine. Slowly, I let out my breath, letting everything that could mean run through me and trip off the edges of my brain. I snapped the folder shut.

"And how does this—any of this—explain me here?"

Now Hank was fumbling again, looking for words that were found in a normal dictionary and not the Dictionary For Geniuses. Finally, he gave up and let out a sharp breath.

"I think—" he stopped, frowning now, and I got the feeling this was the part that worried him most. "The split occurred the moment of Rogue's death on the Statue. We have to assume, unless you can tell me otherwise, that all things were equal to that point. Apparently, it—it's existence, the machine's—caused a rift." Hank's eyes were on me, steady and sad. "Rogue, I think that you should not have survived the Statue."

Something fell free inside me with nowhere to land. I heard Logan's low growl and reached out blindly, feeling his hand slide through mine, warm and firm.

"The machine was stopped before the wave reached New York." It'd stopped. I knew that much, seen through Logan's eyes. It'd stopped in the middle of the water.

"If you had died, the power of your addition would have boosted it enough to reach New York easily. It needed everything of you, Magneto's power and your own, with the power of your actual death, which is an enormous amount of psychic and electrical energy. When Logan touched Rogue here, she was dead, and could not absorb his healing gifts to make up for the damage done to her brain when the machine drained her." Hank's eyes were fixed to my left now. "From what you've told me, the only actual change was the fact you were not dead when Logan removed you from the machine. That is the only one. If you had been dead, the wave would not have been stopped with Scott's destruction of the rings."

I tried to absorb that, but nothing would emerge.

"My life's a mistake?"

"I examined your body after Jean was finished," Hank said softly. "The brain damage was severe. Your mutation was burned out of your grey matter. There was nothing to draw Logan's power with. You should not have survived, Marie."

"Magneto survived it," I snapped. "Twice."

"He didn't set it either time to reach the point of death. He controlled how much it took and how. When you were set into it, it was set to kill you. And there is no reason that should have changed. There is also no reason that it should have drawn you into our dimension—"

"Because my world isn't even supposed to exist," I whispered. "I'm not supposed to exist."

Hank raised both palms in a helpless gesture. God. This wasn't—this wasn't something I needed to hear, needed to know.

"Marie, you may not be able to go back." He drew in a deep breath,letting it out slowly, evenly. I didn't like that. "It is possible that your dimension no longer exists."

Dear God. Dear, dear God.

"I don't accept that. I don't accept that—that Magneto's machine pulled me from my own world and my world no longer exists." Somehow, I found my feet, pulling free of Logan's hands. The world was twisting dizzily and I grabbed for the edge of the couch, almost falling on top of Hank. "Why the fuck am I _here_?"

"For that, I have no answer. If we understood what made that moment Logan touched you on the Statue different so that you survived—then we would know why you are here as well."

"You think they're related," Logan said from behind me as I lowered my head into my hands.

"Yes. It is the only thing I can find that fits nothing in my equations or observations. Rogue survived there and flourished. The machine, when run, cut across dimensional borders and pulled her here, to us, from her own world."

"My world isn't a mistake," I whispered. God, was it though? Was this the future as it was meant to be? "I'm not a mistake. I'm not."

"No, you aren't. This world is the mistake, Hank." Logan's hands were light on my shoulders, sliding to the back of my neck, rubbing gently. "This entire—this place—is a mistake. You know it, Hank, or you wouldn't be fighting it so hard."

"The only way to know would be if Marie allowed herself placed in the machine again and let it run its course," Hank said softly, and I jerked up, heard Logan growl behind me. "Logan, there are no laboratory experiments I can run—this is almost purely a matter of mathematics and physics. And observation of the events in question. I have read and re-read all available data. Other than this, there is nothing I can do. If running the machine with Polaris was all it took, it could be that it will send her to her world. On the other hand—"

"My world no longer exists."

"It is possible. So there would be nothing to go back to."

I nodded numbly, lifting my head and taking the cup of coffee Logan placed in my hands.

"Do you need anything else, Hank?"

Logan and Hank retreated to the other side of the living room, and I curled my feet up under me, thinking through what Hank had told us. Told me. I couldn't—wouldn't absorb it. It was just—just wrong. No way in hell.

I heard the door shut and Logan was beside me, pulling me into a tight embrace.

"Marie—"

"I can't—I can't deal with it, Logan. I don't want to anymore." Everyone had their point of saturation, and I'd reached mine. This was all I could bear. No idea how I got here or why, except that fucking machine was somehow attuned to me, to Rogue, that it had me killed once and maybe wanted a second go-around.

He picked me up easily, brushing my hair back from my face, wiping away the tears. I turned into him, letting the large, warm body lull me a little.

"What am I going to do?"

"Hank's getting another night with the machine." Logan paused, before continuing steadily. "And we record Polaris in it—what happens." His finger covered my lips at my protest. "Not kill her. Run her in it. Just one night—for Hank to observe."

"How?"

"There's a second trial scheduled in a couple of days. The first one that Lensherr ran was to make sure it was operational with her. This time, it'll be to make sure the modifications are functioning" Brushing his hands through my hair, he tilted my face up, meeting my eyes. "We record what happens and send it to Hank."

"Hank'll never agree to that."

"He already did, provided no humans are put in its path." Holding my eyes, he waited until I was nodding. "Good. We'll handle the rest later. I'll talk to Scott about recording the trial run—shit, I'm surprised they're not doing it already."

I nodded again, and Logan took the empty coffee cup from my hand and brushed a kiss across my forehead.

"Let's get some sleep."

I tried to smile, then gave up and wrapped both arms around his neck.

"You want me to carry you?"

He sounded amused. I looked up, nodding slowly, and felt him shift an arm under my knees, holding me close. With a breath, I let everything else go and concentrated on the man holding me. Just trust, Marie. It'll happen. Just believe.

I shut my eyes against the fact that somewhere inside me, a part of me wasn't unhappy with the turn of events. If it didn't work—I'd never go home. Or there might not be a home to go to, if Hank's theory was right.

Question was, how badly did I want to get back. Shit if I knew.

* * *

"Marie?" I put down my book on the picnic table and looked up at Jean, who had emerged from what appeared to be nowhere to sit down across the table from me. Sixteen hours of sleep and sex (mostly sex) and a long bout of Danger Room _sans_ safety protocols had done good things for my mood, but my body twitched as she sat down, wide brown eyes fixed on me with nothing more threatening than friendly interest.

I could like this Jean Grey a lot, truth be told. Too damn easy.

"Hi Jean." It didn't seem so odd, to feel that light tingle around her. It was almost soothing—a subliminal buzz that crept just below the surface of my mind, not invasive so much as softly warming, and I smiled as I lay down the book. "Anything you need?"

"I was checking out the Danger Room logs—you're running some of the more dangerous programs without supervision." Ah yes. Well— "I know you're invulnerable, but that doesn't mean you're immortal."

I shrugged a little, slightly uncomfortable—how many times had I heard this speech before?

"I don't—"

"I read your evaluation—I am not suggesting you aren't capable of taking care of yourself." She looked into my face, brown eyes filled with concern, and I felt a stab of conscience that I'd added to her worries. Grrr, her worries. Keeping upward of twenty-thousand frightened norms in-line. Grrr twice. What the hell was I thinking? "But I'd prefer you had a companion to observe, at very least to assure that you don't break the equipment."

I smiled at that and she smiled back.

"All right." I studied her face. "Is something wrong?"

For a second, she hesitated, then the soft lips tightened.

"I'd like to run your medical exam soon." The words came out in a rush. "I understand your wariness, Marie, I do, but none of the procedures are invasive. A quick scan, a little background information—"

"I wasn't experimented on," I said, and my voice was harder than I expected, remembering Kitty. "They weren't trying out find out anything—"

"I know." The soft voice dropped, and I remembered suddenly what she had gone through. "And I know that physically, you were undamaged. But—" her voice trailed off. "It's difficult, for all of us, to talk about it, but it does help, Marie. I promise you, it does help."

I paused for a moment, feeling it come together—she didn't really give a flip about the exam, though her researching soul wanted it and badly. That was Scott's paranoia, wanting to find out what I was hiding. This was Jean alone—she was worried about me. She wanted to help me, try to work through my post-camp trauma. All my behavior had been tailored toward that, to cover the fact I couldn't be touched. And she was worried. Letting my shields weaken just a little, I felt it melt into me—and I found myself nodding slowly in understanding.

"I—I can't yet." Hopefully never, but her worry was so real, so powerful, I couldn't help reacting to it, my mouth going dry. "S-soon, okay?"

Jean reached out and patted my hand on the table, and for a second, the familiarity of it washed over me. I could remember laying my head in her lap and crying after Bobby and I broke up, whispering how there was something wrong with me, that I couldn't love someone as wonderful as him. And she'd stroked back my hair and stayed with me for hours, only leaving when Logan had shown up unexpectedly—as he always tended to do—and did his own form of post-break-up therapy, which was a night on the roof with a bottle of stolen whiskey, a box of good cigars, and a thoughtful discussion on who among the Brotherhood we'd most like to have an hour alone with in a small enclosed room with some serious weaponry.

I liked hacksaws and Sabretooth, personally.

Jean Grey-Summers, the mother and sister I'd never really had, and that this woman wasn't quite. In a way I could barely admit to myself—this Jean could be so much more.

"All right." Her voice was soft—then the delicate head tilted and I felt that frisson of power running back under my skin, stronger this time. "I spoke to Scott this morning-" oh my, what was this? "—and he thinks, if you feel ready, you can start training for the beta team."

The beta team—Jubes, Bobby, Kitty, Johnny. I blinked, trying to hide my shock—there had been mutants here for several years that hadn't been asked yet to join up. Hell, in my world, it had taken the absorption and assimilation of Carol before I'd been permitted field work—habit, I supposed, from the days when I couldn't defend myself at all unless I was acutely desirous of a schizoid episode. And Logan's absolute promise to Scott and Co that he'd be with me on those first few missions.

It had seemed odd at the time—I knew it was a shock to Scott, that Logan was one of my biggest supporters in pushing for team membership. It seemed weird to Scott, I supposed—the idea that Logan, who had always been slightly paranoid (okay, really, really, really paranoid) about my safety, was willing to let me risk my life on a daily basis. In fact, it made up most of Scott's arguments with Logan—my age, my inexperience, my idealism, a thousand other things that boiled down to his worry about my ability to handle the job.

The arguments had gone on and on for weeks while I waited and trained and wondered when Logan would finally make Scott understand—that this was more than something I wanted; it was something I needed. This was what I was, what I was supposed to do. I fought for the same reasons Logan did, and he understood, even better than Scott, what moved inside me. He'd understood, setting aside his own objections, his own prejudices, his absolute terror of losing me, because this was something I needed.

I'd never, before that moment, appreciated that Logan thought of me first.

I blinked, looking into Jean's eyes—here, I'd never been her younger sister and friend, someone to be protected and cherished and watched. I was just a young woman who came here, someone she chose to offer friendship to, and—and—

"Thanks, Jean," I heard myself say finally, my eyes burning. "I'd like that."

—and, somehow, it made what I was almost a betrayal of both Jeans. I'd loved my Jean for being everything I needed in a mother and sister; this Jean, however, had called on the woman in me, the one that wanted to go out for coffee with her and discuss our sex lives and our clothing choices. The woman who could laugh with her over stupid jokes and be the equal that little Rogue could never, never be.

This Jean and I could be friends, no strings attached.

"Hey." I felt every inch of my skin instantly turn on—no no no, not like that, it's _always_ on like that. A slow warmth that spread through me as a hand rested lightly on my shoulder. "You ready?"

Jean smiled up at Logan—a radiant smile, lighting her up from within that made me catch my breath, made me wonder what had happened between them in the camps, that the dynamics had changed so much between them.

"You're not staying for dinner?"

I looked up at Logan, who shrugged slightly.

"Got some errands to run—be back in the morning." A little grin. "I'll be at the lab on time, darlin', don't worry." Instantly, his hand slipped beneath my elbow and I stood up as he grabbed my book from the picnic table. Jean shook her head in what appeared to be amusement and rose as well.

"Marie agreed to join the beta team—we can set up a schedule tomorrow for training. Scott will want her in tactics for mornings."

Logan gave me a slight grin I couldn't quite interpret.

"Any way you want it's fine, Jeannie. I'll talk to you later." A slight tug and I stepped over the bench quickly.

"Bye Jeannie," I said and the hand on my elbow slid down to my back, resting lightly on my neck as he led me to the car, looking down at the book.

"What the hell are you reading?"

"Just from the library," I answered. "I thought Mag—Mr. Lensherr needed you until later tonight. I was resigning myself to meatloaf again."

"That's not food." Logan had specific ideas about what constituted food and meatloaf had never made the top ten list—or even upper bottom ten list. "And you said you'd join the team, huh?"

I winced at that.

"She caught me off-guard."

"I'd say." A pause. "Marie—"

I shook my head quickly, not really wanting to explain how I'd felt when she asked me, the words that had stumbled out of my mouth without bothering to check by my head. With a sigh, I leaned against him, felt his arm rest over my shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Never mind—it's not important." But it was. It was. And I couldn't pretend it wasn't, that it didn't make me think more than I had in a long time. I was getting used to not being the baby, the child with the scary skin, the girl they remembered rescuing and seemed to often forget that there was nothing innocent left in her head. Just—just Marie, a mutant, who appeared and they accepted.

And I was seriously getting used to being touched and watched and wanted, and that probably wasn't a good sign either. I lifted a hand, lacing my fingers through his resting on my shoulder, and thought about the fact that I was getting into some serious trouble now.

"Marie?"

"Yeah?"

A pause—he was thinking again. Logan thinking was never necessarily a good sign. Like me, he tended toward brooding or violence when he couldn't work a problem out—violence winning usually because it was so very readily available and to be truthful, it certainly did wonders to clear the head. Me and the Danger Room had become up close and personal during the Rogue Joins the Team debates.

"You know we can't stay here."

We?

"We?"

He gave me an impatient look.

"You think I'm sending you off alone?" A snort. I hadn't really thought about it—but it was true. I couldn't stay here much longer. As soon as I could get Polaris deprogrammed or whatever, my ass was gonna be on a flight to anywhere that wasn't here. Anywhere at all. But—it tickled me, the possibility Hank could figure out how to send me back home. If I ran and disappeared—even with Logan—I'd never find a way. And granted, the odds were very much against me, but still—

"Where to?" I kept my head down, not wanting him to see my expression.

—but still...I'd lose Logan. I'd lose this.

"Brazil. For awhile, anyway." I blinked a little in thought, trying to dredge up some of Logan's memories, since his personality had taken some sort of weird hiatus in my head. He and Carol both, come to think of it—I peered inside, checking out the interior weather.

_—Logan?—_

No answer.

_—Carol?—_

Carol had never stayed so silent for so long before in my association with her. They were _there_ I could feel their presence, but internal radar was showing _nada_ activity. Frowning, I pulled back out into the real world, getting in the door Logan opened for me and leaning back into the seat.

Of course, Inner Logan wasn't exactly thrilled about my most recent behavior either. Never a reference to it, not even when I came back on after the first time, still shaking in Logan's arms, his body pressed to mine. But unspoken mental disapproval was disapproval all the same, mixed up with far too many threads of emotion that were too Logan-specific for me to really identify. Even if I wanted to.

And I didn't. I wasn't masochistic.

"What d'you want for dinner?"

"Steak." Automatic response, and the visualization of something rare and cooked on some sort of open fire appealed to me. "Do you really think—do you really wanna go with me? If-If I have to leave?"

"Yes."

Maybe it was the simplicity of the statement, the way he erased all doubts with the absolute matter-of-fact way he said it. I bit my lip, turning my head away. He could always make the strange seem commonplace.

"Logan—what would I do on beta team anyway?"

Another hesitation, then he shrugged.

"When the FoH was here like last time you were out with beta—basically the same thing. Scooter'll want you for tactics and start you on a regular training schedule."

All things considered, until I left, it wasn't a bad cover.

"Who would train me?"

A smile.

"I would, baby." The gates passed us by and I saw Johnny and Bobby walking in the distance. They didn't see me. All was good. "Scooter saw the evaluation and the Danger Room logs—he was pretty damn impressed. Wants to know where you got the training."

I groaned and Logan chuckled at my expression.

"Don't worry over every damn thing—he's getting busy again and won't micromanage day to day crap for much longer. He's restless. Under normal circumstances, he doesn't have nearly this much interaction with new recruits—that's usually my job."

I gave Logan a curious look.

"He's taken a lot of interest in me."

"He has. He's wondered about how well mutations breed true, under what circumstances, if you and Carol had identical mutations, unique mutations. He also noticed your skill and your—"

"Involvement with you." That got me another chuckle and I almost threw my book at him. "Logan, don't even try to deny it—he watches me because he's worried 'bout you."

A half-hearted growl was my first response and I giggled a little to see the expression of half-amusement, half-discomfort that crossed his face.

"He gets like that." It wasn't the first time I'd been curious about the very different relationship between Scott and Logan. This was the first time, however, I felt comfortable with asking Logan about it, and he seemed—well, for Logan—pretty damn open.

"You two—" I paused, thinking about what I was going to say, trying to word it just correctly—alternate Logan or no, the similarities on what is and is not to be considered discussible was a fine line that really depended on how you approached the problem. "You're very close."

Logan gave me a curious glance.

"Yeah."

Hmmm. Not very informative.

"Was that—because of the war?"

There was the slightest tensing of all the muscles of his body, before he relaxed, obviously thinking about my question.

"A little," he admitted, and I let a breath out in relief. "Mostly though—" he hesitated, then plowed in. Very Logan. "Mostly, though, it was sort of necessary. I was here and he was here, and it wasn't like either of us were planning on taking off anytime soon." A shrug. "And Jubes." The slightest trace of a nostalgic smile, but not an absence of pain, and I looked away, forcing down the jealousy that always seemed to rear its nasty head at the mention of Jubilation Lee, ever since I'd first understood the unique relationship between them. In my world, they were—well, friends, and yeah, he was all older-brotherish, but I sensed that if there was a good parallel to make, it was the similarity between this Logan and Jubilee's relationship and my relationship with Logan in my world.

Not comfortable thoughts. Desperately uncomfortable thoughts, that woke up every possessive instinct in my body. The very idea that anyone had taken my place—it hurt, even if I didn't have the right to feel hurt, even if I knew, from our only brief touch, that he'd mourned me—

—he'd moved on and found a new protegee to protect and love and care for, and somewhere in the back of my mind...somewhere, I thought about how very replaceable I really was. In this world, in Logan's life, in people's memories.

For once, no Logan or Carol emerged to reassure me, and I sighed to myself, forcing the uncomfortable thoughts back into the depths of my mind and caught Logan's sharp glance.

"You okay?"

And smart, Marie, make Logan wonder. He would _push_ for answers and I couldn't deal with that.

"Just tired," I said quickly, and we pulled into the apartment parking lot. Getting out, I grabbed my book from the seat and got out the keys Logan had given me, taking the stairs two at a time and dropping on the couch as soon as I got inside.

Logan moved more slowly, shutting the door behind him and that look was there, and man, was _this_ going to get some examination. Shit.

"You don't smell tired."

Did I mention his sense of smell can be inconveniently specific?

"Just—not body-tired. Just—" I let my eyes widen, because another thing—Logan was pretty damn good at catching lies. How, I didn't know and one day, I had to ask him about that. "It's nothing."

The sharp glance didn't diminish, but oddly, he didn't push the point—instead, he simply nodded and went into the bedroom. Stretching out on the couch, I shut my eyes and, hearing him turn on the shower, decided I was allowed to indulge my wounded feelings thoroughly, and hadn't Hank always told me that facing your emotions was much more productive than repressing? Or so he said after every time I went to the Danger Room to work it out at home, and maybe he had a point, because two recent sessions hadn't done anything to cool down that strange pain that accompanied every mention of Jubilee's name.

Sure as hell didn't say much about me, being jealous of a girl who'd died painfully in the camps, another girl that Logan had been unable to save. And maybe I should try thinking about someone other than myself, because that was two girls that Logan ended up losing, two girls he'd protected, and that had to hurt him in ways I couldn't even begin to comprehend. I remembered Jean's tone that day when she told Logan that she was happy he'd found someone.

Since Jubes. If I got home, I wondered if I could ever look at her the same way, as other than a potential rival for my place with Logan. Funny, I'd never felt threatened by Remy, or any of the other kids he'd dragged home at random intervals (how he managed to attract strays was a standing joke at the Mansion), never felt the least bit of jealousy—but then, I'd never been in direct rivalry with Jubilee, who was pretty and perky and could _touch_ and lacked the entirety of the massive Magneto-Statue trauma. Logan had chosen Jubilee, not had her thrust on him along with massive amounts of responsibility and guilt and pain, and I rolled on my side and dug my fingers into the couch angrily. Here, I was his lover and his friend and he protected me, but I'd lost the specialness of being his first and dearest, and—and somewhere along the line, I'd never realized how much I'd depended on that, how much I'd taken for granted. How much I missed it, missed the absolute security of knowing that no matter what else I was or was not to him, I was the first he'd stopped for, the first he'd cared for, and the first he'd loved, the one he would do anything for.

I should be ashamed of myself.

"Marie."

Some things didn't change, and one of them was my instinctive reaction to a wet Logan wearing nothing but jeans. Almost relieved, I pushed the self-pity back and away, sitting up to enjoy a view that was worth money, damn it.

"Hey."

There was the slightest trace of a smile on his face—he knew damn well what he did to me when he looked like that, and, all unwitting, I stood up, almost falling over the coffee table and grabbing the collar blindly, locking it around my throat before two skipped steps and tackling him to the floor.

Th soft rush of my power coming under control dizzied me, and I braced my hands on either side of his shoulders and gave him a smile.

"Missed you."

"So I see." The slightest hint of a grin. "What's bothering you?"

Crap.

"Nothing," I replied easily, grinding down slightly—got a reaction and allowed myself to feel smug, before both hands closed over my hips and brought me to a screeching halt.

"Uh-huh." The sharp look was back, and Logan sat up, standing up without much regard to my weight and I quickly wrapped my legs around his waist to keep some sort of control. "Something's wrong and you try to fob me off with Jeannie, I'll know you're lying. You were fine in the car, then you weren't. Wanna make this easy and explain?"

Not particularly, no.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying." In an easy movement, he dropped me on my back on the bed, pinning me neatly under him—not necessarily a bad position and one I could definitely enjoy under the right circumstances. I pushed ineffectively and he sighed, sitting up and pinning my arms under each knee before reallocating his weight and giving me a smirk.

"I could throw you." You know, if I could pull the collar off without the key, recover from collar shock, and then get some decent leverage.

"Uh-huh."

Something. Had to make up something.

"The statues."

For a second, something flickered through his eyes that I couldn't define—then it was gone. His weight shifted.

"I can get it taken down at the school," he said slowly, and I frowned—there was a level of distance suddenly between us and I had no idea what to do about it.

"It's okay—it's just creepy to run across my face all the time." Still looked oddly expressionless, and I wondered suddenly if it had been an open wound, to see me all the time like that. He'd never been allowed to forget. Who would order something like that anyway? Forcing myself not to shiver, I half sat up, absently bracing a hand on his shoulder. "Could we really leave?"

"We can go now."

I looked up to see the absolute sincerity of his expression, and felt a sudden wave of warmth for him.

"You have a good life here, sugar. You know, before I showed up to screw around with it."

"Nothing better than you." Before I could think of an answer to that, he licked the corner of my mouth, and lifted a little, letting my arms free. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him down toward me as I tilted my head to kiss him. His hands tightened on my waist and he sat back on his heels, drawing me into his lap.

"It's gotta be soon, baby," he murmured into my hair.

"I know." Breathing out when his lips traced across my shoulder, twisting my hair back. "After Hank comes back—"

"If he says we can't fix this, we go." A hand on the small of my back pushed me closer, aligning our hips, and he turned my head so he could look in my eyes. "I'm not losing you again, Marie."

Wide-eyed at the emotion written so clearly in hazel, I nodded.

"Okay."

* * *

When Logan said he had a team meeting, I was resigning myself to some time in the library or on the computers again—so it was something of a shock when Logan told me I'd have to be there.

"What?"

Logan sighed a little, slowing us down from his usual happy ninety-eight mile an hour speed to something approaching quasi-legal. Of course, for all I knew, old President Mystique had declared all speed limits unfriendly to mutants, so really, who was I to judge? And God knew, I hadn't seen a police officer since I arrived.

That said something, though I wasn't sure what, about how justice was delivered these days.

"You agreed to beta team membership. Welcome to the fun of conferences."

Logan must have seen my horror—if there was one single thing I didn't miss about the other world, it was Scott's "State of the X-Men" speeches. Not that they were bad or anything—Scott, like his wife, was a gifted orator, capable of inspiring through passionate rhetoric. The thing was, they happened once a week. Logan, Remy, Jubilee, and I had bets going on how often Scott used the term "humanity" and "peace" in the same sentence.

With the money, Logan and I'd had a very nice vacation in India.

"You're kidding."

Logan shook his head.

"Does he do speeches?"

Logan gave me a look.

"Same over there?"

I sighed.

"Same in the other world, yeah." Frowning, I stared out the windshield. "Isn't he—you know—suspicious of me?" Suddenly hopeful. "Can you tell him I've been playing in the ghetto again?"

Logan laughed softly.

"Good try, baby, but no. He's called in all the teams—'Ro's too. Must be something that's bothering him."

I frowned, turning to look at him.

"Alpha team Scott leads, beta team Bobby and St. John lead. Ororo was with the X-Men on the last—"

"Ororo's a different branch." I was still frowning, so Logan thought for a second. "Look at it like this—the X-Men handle domestic. Ororo, you might say, is international. She lives at Westchester to keep up with developments that we know before Mystique, but her team is in DC. Scott's got all of them under his command, but he really doesn't interfere with 'Ro too often. She comes with us when there's something to do with international support of anti-mutant groups."

"The thing with the FoH cell that attacked the school?" I shivered a little to remember it.

Logan's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"Yeah, that's a biggie. That it came in time with another attack that Scott, 'Ro, and I were on. There have been too many, and there's a pattern to it. Scott's been studying it when he's not trying to single handedly run the school and everyone in it, so I'm guessing he found something."

"Oh."

"He thinks Hank being here has something to do with it."

I twisted in my seat.

"What?"

Logan shifted uncomfortably as we took the turn that led to the driveway of the Mansion.

"Hank arrived in town before that group attacked the school. Kitty ran blood samples through our DNA records. All of them were FoH—clean DNA, but no birth records, nothing. Granted, the war destroyed a lot of information, but I doubt it serendipitously managed to destroy the records of all seven."

Yeah, that'd be a big damn coincidence. I mulled that, pulling on my seatbelt.

"You said Hank's against the mutant regime—"

"Not just against it—he's an active proponent of reintegration and reparation of surviving humans."

"Reparations?" That brought me straight up in shock. "Mutants were disenfranchised first! What the hell do they want, an apology for us escaping the experimental centers?"

_—Us?—_

I flushed, feeling inner Logan's grim amusement.

_—Mutants. I am a mutant, even if I didn't go through this.—_

Inner Logan's snort was soft.

_—So you are. Interesting how you're identifying with them.—_

Shutting Logan out, I turned my full attention to real life Logan. It was getting easier to block out the inner voices—I supposed desperation was definitely the mother of invention.

"Hank—Hank didn't like the reconstruction period much." Logan shrugged.

"Enough that he'd work actively to undermine the current government?" I thought about it carefully. "Why were the bodies immolated?"

Logan paused, then brought the car to a stop, putting it in park.

"Treason—"

I cut him off with a gesture.

"Nothing. Why immolate the corpses after? Were you worried they'd carry something?" I processed Kitty's memories rapidly. "Like Legacy?"

"They were suiciding, Marie. You don't attack the Mansion with seven people and almost no firepower. They were there to do something or release something. Allerdyce's fires burn hot enough and fast enough to kill all bacteria. It's been standard procedure since we got out of the experimentation labs. We don't know what all they developed in their labs and aren't too keen to find out first hand."

I took a breath, letting it out slowly.

"Hank wouldn't ally himself with the FoH, Logan. And they certainly wouldn't—"

"Alliances based on common need. Hank thinks that if mutantkind shifts over and allows humanity back in the game, all will be forgiven and forgotten. He's a believer, Marie—and there's nothing more dangerous, nothing, than a true believer. So yes, if he thought it would bring about his dream, he'd ally himself to anyone and anything." Logan snorted. "He's destroyed labs before we could get the information out of them, had St. John burn them down to pure ash. To keep more bitterness from festering, he said that we didn't need to know some of the horrors that were recorded there." Logan sighed, leaning back into his seat. "After the war, he and Scott battled it out for months before Scott cut his losses and kicked Hank out of the New York zone. He's not forbidden access to DC, so he's based out of there. And Ororo knows he's been in contact with at least three of the FoH cells in Canada."

Dazed, I sat back against the seat and, after a few minutes, Logan put the car back in drive.

"I can't believe he'd sell out his own people."

Logan snorted.

"He thinks he's saving us from ourselves, baby. Good intentions, which will lead us straight to hell faster than anything else. He's believed for seven years, through the war and through the people Scott and I brought to him from the camps, from watching what they did to us, what they would have done to us. He still believes. There's little I don't think Hank would do to bring about his idea of postwar society, baby."

I bit my lip and knew, for absolute fact, that I'd been right not to tell Logan about Johnny and vice versus. Picking at my seatbelt, I watched the countryside go by and wondered what I'd do.

* * *

"Are you ready?"

You know, I had no idea. I thought so, but I couldn't be sure on that score. Checking the mirror again, I studied myself in the X-Men uniform. Just the same as home—actually, the fit was even better. Different collar, slightly lower and didn't scrape on my upper throat. The cuffs ended perfectly so I could wear short gloves, not long ones, and the boots had a thicker heel. In all honesty, with the short blonde hair and the wide green eyes, I looked good. Dangerous.

Little Rogue at home, no matter how hard she tried, had never looked dangerous. She'd always looked like she needed someone to take care of her on the field, in the training sims, when she went on a date.

_—Having fun?—_

_—This should be interesting.—_I told Carol, changing the subject. _Now_ she decided to show up.

_—I'd love to figure out why you're doing this.— _I shivered a little; to be honest, I didn't really know myself. —_You want to please him this much, go out and kill some humans to prove your—what? Loyalty? Love?—_

_—I'm not going to kill anyone.—_I answered and turned away from the mirror. —_I'm going because I don't want them to suspect I'm an infiltrator and get my ass locked up or found out before Hank gets to finish his calculations on the machine. He said—_

_—He doesn't know any more than you do now.—_ Acid-Carolness. I bit my lip, wishing I could run out on her but getting away from my own head was almost impossible. I'd tried.

Growling, I turned around and saw Logan leaning against the door, eyebrows slightly arched. The uniform had always done good things for him. I looked forward to peeling it off of him one piece at a time tonight. Maybe in the shower. Licking my lips, I smiled.

"Inner convo there?" he asked, and I frowned a little.

"Carol's being a bitch."

He smiled slightly, before his eyes traveled down my body appreciatively, and I felt myself begin to flush as his eyes met mine again, knowing. So damn knowing. The heat spread as he took a few steps, crossing the small space between us, hands closing over my waist and pushing me up against the lockers.

"Logan!" I gasped, as he ran his hands down my sides, settling back on my hips. A wicked smile curved his mouth and he leaned close until his lips almost touched mine, breath warm on my skin. "You can't touch me—"

"Don't worry." A breath against my ear, before his hand touched my face and I realized he was gloved. Deliberately, he ground up against me, drawing a gasp from between my lips, and I locked my thighs around him, wondering when it became standard operating procedure before missions, even minor ones, to fool around a little.

Not that I was against this. In fact, as far as I was concerned, it should be in the X-Manual of pre-mission behavior.

I ground back down, drawing my hands over his shoulders and chest, breathing out at the hand covering my breast and caressing the nipple beneath hard. I leaned forward, biting lightly through the leather into his shoulder and he slid flat against me, nuzzling me through my hair.

"You look really good, baby," he breathed against my ear, catching a fold of skin between his teeth and bearing down slightly. Invulnerable skin didn't usually bruise, but the pain-pleasure was equal in all other ways. I growled into his uniform and felt his answer in the rumble of his chest against mine.

"Logan?"

Shit. I craned my neck, pulling myself up to look over Logan's shoulder, and saw Jean's amused smirk. Logan half turned, hands under my thighs holding me against him, and Jean looked like she was about to burst out laughing. I groaned and buried my head against his shoulder.

"If you two are finished—" she murmured, barely controlling herself, and Logan sighed, letting me slide slowly down his body. Slowly. So I could be very much aware of what he'd much rather be doing. I'm with you there, sugar.

"Not yet, but duty and all that crap." His hand rested on the back of my neck and then he grabbed my duffle bag from the floor. "Scooter got the jet powered?"

Jean's eyebrows arched.

"I certainly wouldn't interrupt you for anything less." Another slight smirk. "You're piloting, so get to it. I think I can get Marie safely in the Blackbird."

"Fuck."

She rolled her eyes and Logan gave me a smile before the quickest rub of his fingers against the back of my neck and he went on ahead, my bag slung over his shoulder as he grabbed his own from the doorway. Still smiling, Jean waited until I joined her. I could barely look her in the face.

"You look a little red, Marie. Too much sun?"

Jean Grey in an innuendo mood was _not_ something I was used to, and I flushed all the harder. She slapped me lightly on the shoulder.

"I know the mission briefing in the conference room was pretty thorough, so I won't go over it again. We didn't think we'd need you, but Bobby and Johnny are needed here for security with Kitty away." I nodded, thinking of Kitty still in her room with Bobby and Johnny to watch over her, and kept my eyes fixed on the oh-so-interesting toes of my boots. "This is a pretty routine mission, and after some thought, Scott and Ororo thought it would be a good break-in for you."

"Just information gathering?"

Jean nodded.

"A recently discovered lab. It's been in use in the last six months, but not recently. We clear the computers, check the records, and store everything for Kitty to decrypt."

I frowned a little in thought.

"Why send alpha team, then?"

Jean shrugged.

"It does seem like a beta mission, but this was an Alpha-class-containment lab. Possibly a top-level experimental facility at that. That's always priority—we found Legacy in a lab like this." A slight pause. "There's also the chance of this being a trap—we've run into several, so we need Bobby and Piotr on campus, in case something happens again on the grounds." She gave me a knowing look. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

Made sense. I nodded slowly, then dared to glance up at her.

"Don't look like that. It's nice to see people happy." There was something in her eyes that told me that it was more the 'Logan being happy' than anything else. Not that I was surprised by that. "Marie—" a pause, before Jean's hand on my arm stopped me in my tracks. Curious, I turned to face her and met the serious brown eyes. "It's—has anyone talked to you about—has he talked to you about the war?"

I frowned, trying to—oh, right, Jubilee. Forcing down my instinctive jealousy, I nodded shortly—this was _not_ something I felt like discussing.

Maybe Jean read in on my face, because she turned to the door to the hangar, hand on the palm-lock, before another hesitation.

"You—it's been hard for him, Marie. If he ever seems—distant—don't take it personally." Then a rush of words. "He's gone through a lot. But—I've never seen him like this, not ever. Not since she died." An amazing smile lighted her face then—beautiful and sweet, and the wide dark eyes were focused on me.

Because I helped Logan over Jubilee's death. Because I made him happy. Because—I stopped, taking a breath, schooling myself to acceptance, to a smile and a nod, not letting her see any more than I wanted her to see.

Jean pressed the release and I saw the jet waiting for my first mission.

Deliberately, I dismissed Jubilee from my memory and turned my full attention to the mission at hand.

* * *

Scott and Logan argued all the way to the site—it was familiar on one hand, utterly astonishing on the other. It was exactly the same—but there wasn't a single moment of true hostility between them, nothing at all but the most comfortable friendship, so startling that it kept me quiet just to hear it. No matter how many times I dismissed it, it yet again brought up the specter of the dead girl I was seriously trying to forget.

_—Sometimes, I wonder about you.—_ Carol's voice was amused. —_Now at least you know what Logan's lovers were always up against when you hated them. I suppose you could call this a learning experience.—_

I snorted softly, then looked around to make sure no one noticed. Nope, the two person entertainment brigade up front was keeping 'Ro, Remy, and Jean nicely occupied.

_—I have no idea on earth what you mean by that.—_

_—Sure you do.—_ Faintly acid. Carol could make her voice drip with it. —_Midnight phone calls because Bobby broke up with you and brought him home quick-quick to take care of poor little Roguey, leaving Elektra to fume. When you and Remy broke it off, six hour phone calls and a trip to Hong Kong because you were depressed and needed a change of scenery, leaving—what was her name?—alone in Argentina for endless months. Rogue upset? Logan comes running. Now you know.—_

Dear God, was I that annoying?

_—When you absorbed me, where was he?—_

I had to think about that. There was a lot of time I deliberately repressed, including that unfortunate incident with Logan and a woman—and _what_ had her name been anyway? Shit.

_—Out.—_

_—With that chick you never think about, the one he nearly married. You know the one. And what happened? He's two weeks from his wedding and then he's gone back home to because Rogue's in the middle of crisis and the words Crisis and Rogue in the same sentence always connect with his violent need to get directly to you, in person. It was four months before you were stable again, and you ever wonder why he didn't bother to go back to her?—_

Shit. I shifted uncomfortably, pulling at the edges of my gloves. No, I actually hadn't. It had been enough that he never, ever mentioned her, enough that he was in the training ring with me and he slept beside me so he could wake me from my dreams and held me when Carol and I fought out the epilogue of the battle for my body.

_—She broke it off?—_

_—Yeah. You're a quick one, honey.—_

Inner Logan was utterly silent and I turned inside curiously.

_—Logan?—_

It was damn difficult to get Inner Logan to speak when he wasn't interested in doing so, and it was doubly difficult when we were hitting personal territory.

_—Loooo-gan.—_ Rich with Carol-pleasure. —_You never told her?—_

There was the approximation of a growl that reverberated through my head and chest, enough to make me start a little in surprise, wondering if I'd vocalized and someone had heard it. A quick glance around said no.

_—Not talking 'bout this.—_

A confirmation if I ever heard one. Turning the unique thoughts over and over in my mind, I tried to figure out what this could mean.

"Marie?"

I blinked, felt Logan's utter relief, and silently promised a return to this subject later before focusing on Ororo. As she gave me the rundown of my duties in this mission—stay close to Logan or another team member, watch, listen, learn, all that—I considered what we would find. My first actual lab—in my world, I'd never seen one other than the vague, unformed shapes of Logan's dreams, and in this world, all I had was Kitty's memories.

Quickly, I blocked the thoughts away and focused on the issue at hand. Be a good little junior X-Man. Be a good little human-hater. I could do it.

* * *

"Fuck." Whispered, because I needed to say something—I'd instinctively disliked silences since I'd first absorbed Cody. The voices in my head had too much space to fill and play with—the outer world grounded me harder against being overtaken by the inner.

It said something about my inner world, of course, that Carol and Logan's presence I could easily feel—but curiously, they kept silent, even when I reached within with a half-hope of getting a response. Schizophrenia was never around when I wanted it. Damn them. Right now, I could have used the company.

This was what could be called an ambush—all the earmarks of being tempted out and then attacked. Which, given, the team had been prepared for, more or less. From my place crouched in the hallway, I glanced at Logan leaning against the opposite wall.

"What are we doing?" I whispered, and Logan waved me to silence, tapping the comm in his ear, eyes fixed on the length of hallway to my left and the corner beside us. This wasn't a good place to be, no question.

"Waiting." A pause, then he shook his head, dropping into a predator's easy crouch and turning his full attention on me. "Jeannie and Scott are handling it."

Handling _what_ though? I knew enough to be still, watching Logan scan the area with all his senses. I wished I had them too. God, I wished, beyond words.

A beam of something dark red and lethal hit the wall inches from Logan's head—no warning yell, nothing but that red that was _not_ Scott's visor, and Logan spun out of the way as if pushed, landing as neatly as a cat four feet down. I darted after him, finding the reassuring weight of the Glock at my hip, breathing out as his hand rested briefly on my thigh, getting my attention.

"What the hell _is_ that thing?" I'd forgotten to ask what the standard anti-mutant weaponry was these days and Logan probably thought I'd done my research. God, I could be stupid. Hadn't I been hit by one of those suckers already?

"Similar to Genoshan collar but little more crude. Attacks the nervous system, temporary paralysis, shut down of powers." He was breathing lightly, quickly, forcing a higher adrenaline rush. "Scott shoulda taken them out."

I didn't say what was obvious—that Scott was out of action now.

"How many?"

"No fucking clue." He growled, low in his throat—and I echoed it all unmeaning, trying to think through the possibilities. Something was _really_ wrong with this picture.

"This is more than an ambush, isn't it?" I whispered. Logan nodded and tapped the comm at his ear, keeping me silent as he listened. Scott had called radio silence, with an open line between Logan and Scott at all times, so he wasn't listening for orders.

He was trying to see if Scott was still breathing.

"Alive."

I nodded shakily and got my hand on my gun. I didn't like guns—until this moment. Suddenly, it was the one thing that seemed safe.

"We gotta get outta here." This was screaming bad things—they _hadn't_ killed Scott, and killing the leader of the X-Men should be, by all logic, of paramount importance. They wanted him for something, and for that reason alone, they should _not_ have him. I glanced at Logan, then took a deep breath.

I remembered how that red had ground into my spine, rushed through my body. How many shots had I taken that day? One or two or three? I tried to remember, but all my memories had solidified around the dead, bloody body at my feet. At least two, before I'd lost air and hit the ground, but Carol had dragged both of us through that fire, so the invulnerability had held in place longer.

"I can take two shots," I told Logan, and he turned to look at me. For a second, he hesitated, then a short nod, squeezing my leg again.

"I can take three," he murmured. "Get to the plane and call for back-up. I'll find Cyke."

I turned a twisted smile on him.

"Cyclops? That's the codename still?" I shook my head and braced a hand on the floor, ready for my leap. "What's Jean's, anyway?"

I got a tight smile and hot hazel eyes when he answered. He was ready for the hunt.

"She came back from the dead, baby. They call her Phoenix."

* * *

It wasn't like the attack outside the Mansion. I was ready this time. More than that, I was Rogue straight through.

I'd trained with another Logan completely, granted—but memory isn't just stored in the brain. It's stored in the body, the spinal cord to be exact. I could type at 100 wpm without looking, though I had to think if you took my fingers off the keys and asked me where 'v' was located on the keyboard. Some things are all physical. And though we were a timeline apart in life, the training he'd given my body was the same he'd given himself. It knew what he'd do even if I didn't, and it knew him in ways I couldn't.

I came from the air and he attacked from the ground. I got a splash of bright-red on my knee when I passed the first body he took down and slammed the second body myself into the ceiling with an easy swoop. They only sent in two. That was stupid.

Logan got hit once and I avoided a hit at all. Out of the hall, we emerged into the small reception room where they'd apparently kept their secretary or whatever FoH used for administrative purposes and broke through the front door, spilling outside into an lovely warm summer evening.

We both saw Scott at the same time, sprawled on the pavement of the parking lot, surrounded by five different masked, black-clad FoH members who were ready for us. Three shots in rapid succession took Logan out and I took off into the sky, feeling my body shake at the change in air pressure. I hadn't practiced enough—I needed Carol for this.

_—Give me some help here.—_ Her experience—she'd exploited her mutation from the second of manifestation. Carol mumbled something, and it was easier to bypass and run through her memories of flight, dragging out the experience and correcting my angle as I watched the ground _way_ too far below, crowded with more people than I was comfortable with. Please God, don't let me develop a phobia about heights now.

Logan was nowhere in evidence and I got a glance at the door and guessed he'd gone undercover until the shots worked themselves out of his system. Superhealers just had too many damn advantages in battle. And they'd know that as well as I did.

Ducking behind the roof, I got a foot on the tile and staggered—my landings had never been good and I didn't have time to utilize Carol to get it better. Not important anyway. Scott was visible, visor gone, and looking pretty unconscious. Jean beside him.

God, Jean. She didn't look too good.

'Ro—I took a breath. 'Ro and Remy were no where in sight. They might have made it back to the Blackbird, or they might be in that building with the computers. They might know what was going on and they might not. Hell, they might be captured or dead, and shit if I knew.

I did know, however, that the FoH had targeted Scott specifically. It would have taken several people and some serious planning and surprise to get Scott anywhere.

Resting my other foot on the tile, I flattened myself down, trying to think of something to do. If they made a move to take Scott, I'd act, no question. Watching them, weird guns out and ready, circling him in a paremeter sweep that looked a little too efficient, I tried to decide what to do. Three more emerged from the far side of the building, crossing the pavement, saying something that I couldn't quite hear. I was alone, there were at least ten people down there that were the enemy, and I wasn't placing bets on how many had gone inside.

Lifting my head carefully, I watched them scanning the area—somehow they'd either missed my advent or thought I was well gone. I was guessing the former—I'd come out high _after_ Logan, and human instinct doesn't tell them to look to the sky for much in the way of escapable threats.

Stupid, that. I wanted to know who the hell had given us the info on this damn little mission, because there was _nothing_ about this that felt spontaneous.

The wind was wrong to hear voices, so I couldn't tell what was going on when they gathered in a tight knot, armed and looking quite comfortable with those damn guns. I could take two—maybe three of those beams. I'd shook that second one off fast enough that day at the Mansion, after all. Maybe four. But I didn't have combative powers—and a Glock, though pretty and useful, wouldn't be fast enough to take enough of them before they took me down. Narrowing my eyes, I watched three get closer to Scott and Jean, kicking Jean out of the way and leaning over him holding electrical tape. I winced—God, Scott should never have let her come on this mission, never. She could—she could lose her baby. Crap.

Watching them truss up Scott and Jean with practiced skill, I knew my options were gone. They were taking him. I had to get down there. I tapped the comm in my ear, but it wouldn't activate unless Scott reactivated it himself. Shit. Had to talk to him about that.

The building as a whole was roughly seventy feet across—I was thirty feet away from being horizontal with Scott's position on the ground. If I got over there without detection, I could make it down and get Scott and maybe Jean too, up and onto the roof. They could _try_ to follow, but the slopes of the roof would make it damn hazardous. The best I could do was play for time—in open air, I couldn't avoid those shots and two at least would bring me out of the sky like a duck during hunting season.

I could take some pot shots with my gun from up here and take a few out that way, but I had a good idea that they might be wearing something under those black issues clothes that did more than merely deflect fire.

The most obvious option I was shying away from—namely, land by Scott and touch. One point five seconds to turn on, another second to absorb enough for my body to mimic his mutation, hopefully absorb enough trig to make good shots. I'd watched Scott Summers train for years—I knew exactly what those beams could do.

Logan had told me Scott would kick ass as an assassin. I was going to find out if he kicked ass as a sniper too.

Levitating an inch from the roof's surface, I moved slightly toward the center and floated my way along, hoping no one was checking out the roof for interested spectators, hoping Remy and 'Ro came out soon. They had to still be inside—Logan and I had split to cover the first computer bank, and they'd gone downstairs for the second. If they'd found something that was important, they'd break silence, but I hadn't heard anything yet. Touching the comm, I dropped carefully to the roof and made my steady way toward the edge, hoping to God I'd measured this right. I couldn't look over now—the second I came into view, I needed to be moving and fast.

Bracing my hands on the rough tiles, I got my legs under me and crouched for just the briefest second.

"Who the hell—"

Crap. Thank you Murphy's law, couldn't you just stay the HELL outta my life for just one mission?

I leaped, trusting my instincts that told me Scott was in range. I landed inches away, rolling to absorb the landing and rolling onto the balls of my feet, tearing my glove off with my teeth as the first beam knocked against my chest, throwing me back five feet. Yeah, right. The tingle was familiar, as it tried to work it's way through skin that was as good as a physical shield. A bullet grazed my temple, but I refused to let myself panic—after all, I'd stood still and let Jean fire shots at me when we were testing my skin's ability to deflect. My bare hand was inches away from his face, and that's when my instincts said NO.

I said yes and planted it over the perfect golden cheek.

It was...

Logan had taken me from the Mansion when Carol was subdued, away from everything else and lost us both in Hong Kong for a few weeks that went by way too fast. Drunk and exhausted, we'd collapsed in an alley outside the harbor, blood sprinkling out clothes from a bar fight and he'd asked me—he'd asked me if I liked it, when I absorbed someone.

He'd been too drunk to think what he was asking. I'd been too drunk to lie.

I liked it _a lot_.

Power was power—someone else's rushing through me, the new presence in my head annoying and deadly, but that wasn't the addiction. When I got their life, their being—it was a high I couldn't even describe. When I touched a powerful mutant—Magneto, Logan, Carol Danvers, now Scott Summers—it was liquid, like tossing a speedball through my system. It was like playing God.

Shit, it was like _being_ God, because I had everything of them, more than if I'd put a knife to their heart and pushed it in, more than if I'd held a gun to their head and pulled the trigger. It was the kill for the psychological kick and a rush of sheer power for the emotional one. It was better than being drunk, better than being high, better than adrenaline. I got the personality to give me hell, but I got all that sheer power and life-force and it was—

....it was _good._

I trusted Logan and Carol to take care of Scott's personality. Lifting my hand from his skin, I braced it on the ground and opened my eyes, seeing through the soft haze of uncontrolled red the men surrounding me.

It was shooting ducks in the carnival, because they didn't expect it, and I knocked out seven in wide-beam before the other three realized what the hell I was doing. Three more shots in quick succession and the tingling ran down my body, but I had to laugh because it wasn't kicking in, it might slow me down, but they didn't understand. Norms never really did.

I didn't have the power to hover, the red was already fading from the blasts that were inhibiting my mutations, but I had the physical skills still until they could get off enough shots to break through my skin. I threw myself forward, bare hand against a vulnerable throat, seeing through misty-red and a fading grey world, felt that skin under mine. My mutation was almost off, I knew it, and felt the tingling numbness spreading up my body. Only a few seconds, and I'd be out, out for good. Sluggish remains of him crawled weakly into my thoughts, leaving slimy, blackened trails of hate and fear, the images of the things he wanted to do to me, the things he'd done to other mutants, the white walls of the labs he wanted us to be in, just to hear us scream....

Norm _bastard_.

Gripping my fingers in, I ripped out his throat and collapsed to let the grey take over completely. Blood and tissues were thick on my skin, and I heard the gurgle before my eyes forced themselves closed. I'd taken my third life.

And the high was as good as it'd ever been.

* * *

I woke up and jerked instantly, hovering inches above the med bed. Jean retreated instantly, and I saw her hands were encased in latex.

Oh, this so wasn't a good sign.

"Rogue," she said softly. And I knew she knew—my mind felt strangely clear, and I could feel her fingerprints all through it, light and strong. The other personalities, Scott's personality, were held at bay, behind an opaque whiteness that gave my mind the feel of a medical lab. I wondered if this was what her personal shields looked like from the inside. Made sense.

Xavier had never been able to do that for me. He'd never been able to block them all off, and I almost wanted to thank her, just for that. Almost.

Hovering on a moving plane wasn't the easiest thing in the world, but I could manage it. I looked around wildly, noting my hand was cleaned of blood, though I spotted it ground under my nails. Good enough.

"Come down, baby." Logan was standing beside Jean—he must have been close to the bed. "It's okay."

"Logan—"

"Trust me." He reached up with a gloved hand, brushing through my hair, and I let myself sink back down. Jean didn't move forward, respecting my space, but Logan did, instantly pulling me into a close embrace, exactly what I needed. I ignored my bare hand, wrapping both arms around him and burying my head against his chest.

"You okay?" I whispered.

"Fine, baby. Look at me." I couldn't manage it yet—too much, it was far too much. My mind was clear, they knew who I was, but so far, everything seemed okay.

"Scott okay?"

"Unconscious, but fine." Jean now, in doctor mode. Barely, I could see Scott stretched on the cot behind the back curtain, the visor picking up light from the med bay. "He'll be out for a few hours and a little drained when he wakes up, but he'll be fine. You didn't hurt him."

Oh, that was good. Logan's hand braced below my chin and pulled it up—and I realized in shock that my hand was on his bare neck, just below his hair. I jerked back, hand at my throat.

No collar.

"What—I can't—-" I felt more, then looked through my mind. My power was still there. But—

"You were channeling too many personalities when you first woke up," Jean said. "I erected temporary shields to hold you mind." She shrugged a little, peeling her gloves off and casually laying a hand on my shoulder, finger brushing my neck. I jumped from the touch. "It went off too." She paused, brows knitting together. "I don't quite understand why you have such good shielding and cannot control your mutation."

I blinked, then looked at Logan, who shot her a look I couldn't interpret.

"Not now, Jean."

Jean smiled a little, tilting her head.

"Logan said you would explain what happened—after I identified you from the records." Crap. "He also asked that we keep the Blackbird out of the New York zone until you awakened." Another pause, and she exchanged another glance with Logan, this time a little challenging.

"I won't get back in that machine," I said slowly. I could still fly, my invulnerability I could feel around me, and I didn't feel weak. Just touch was off. I shivered a little—it felt so normal.

It didn't _feel_ any different, and I had to wonder why that was. I felt different when the Genoshan collar was on. But this—Logan's hand covered mine, pulling it off my throat.

"No, she won't." Logan's gaze was fixed on Jean. "Jeannie—"

Jean shook her head.

"That was Erik's project, Logan. Polaris is willing. I'm certainly not—"

"You don't think Erik's gonna snap her up the second he finds out what she is? Especially after all the damn reports Hank sent to him telling him how impossible it'd be for that piece of crap to work with Polaris in it?"

Jean paused, and I could see the machinations trekking across her eyes, as she tried to decide how Magneto would react.

"You're right," she answered slowly, and leaned against the bed. Her eyes were on me again. "You're Rogue—the original?"

"Not your original," I snapped, then bit my lip. Damn. Be nice, Marie. "I'm—the one that lived." God, did I have to tell this story again? I took a breath and then felt her hand lightly against my temple.

"Let me."

With her shields in my mind, I really didn't have much of a choice if she decided to force the issue.

"I won't read you without permission, Marie." A pause, and I felt the press of her fingers on my face, the lightest brush of her mind, utterly nonthreatening. Right. But the choice of explaining the unlikely story again and Jean fishing for it herself was easy. I swallowed, gripping Logan's hand tightly, and nodded.

It was so brief that I barely felt anything at all. Jean leaned back, nodding to herself, and then pushed a strand of my hair behind my ear.

"I didn't know the machine could do that," she said slowly. A little smile curled up the corners of her mouth. "Then again—" she looked at Logan. "Hank confirmed?"

"Yeah. I got his opinion when I found out."

"How long have you known?" Now she was turning toward him, and I sensed the beginnings of hostility, flickering like heat on the surface of her skin. It was beautiful and scary as all hell.

Logan seemed less than impressed.

"Cool it, Jeannie. I wasn't turning her over to Lensherr for more fun and games."

"You can't keep this secret forever, Logan." She paused, eyes narrowing. "Brazil? Genosha? India?" Her lips tightened. "We need you here."

"She needed me first."

There was _a lot_ going on in here that I suddenly sensed was peripheral to me.

"Logan—"

"Not now. Who else did you tell, Jeannie?"

Jean frowned, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Scott will know the second he awakens—I can't keep secrets from the link, you know that. 'Ro and Remy didn't see anything and the shots drained her mutation." She waited for a moment. "I won't tell Erik, and you know Scott better than to think he would." A faint flicker of long fingers. "You should know me better too."

There was the briefest pause, before I felt the tension drain out of Logan.

"Okay."

"When we get to New York and Scott wakes up, we'll discuss it." Her voice brooked no argument, and Logan didn't protest. "Erik's in Washington and his flunkies aren't allowed inside the lower levels. It'll just be us. All right?"

Logan hesitated, then glanced down at me. What, I should have an opinion? I looked at Jean, trying to make the decision. They knew. My options were limited already. And I didn't like the tension between them—I didn't like it because I sensed they weren't used to it, that they _didn't_ argue like they did in my world. Mouth dry, I nodded shortly and closed my eyes, letting Logan draw me back into his arms.

"You feel okay?"

"Yeah," I murmured, and let myself not think of anything at all.


	8. Interlude: The Legend

_Any man who has once proclaimed violence as his method is inevitably forced to take the lie as his principle. _   
_—Alexander Solzhenitsyn_

* * *

**Three years earlier**

Sometimes.

Just sometimes, Scott would wake and the camp would surround him again with the thick odors of unwashed bodies and unburied waste. The filthy-dirt floor of the temporary shack inside the main complex shifted beneath his body, darkness all around him, the bandage he'd made from the ragged remainder of someone's shirt wrapped securely around the unhealed wounds from the last rounds of experiments.

Just from the last. There'd be more, when they figured out something new from the Summers genetic code or from the brain tissue they'd extracted that'd stolen some of his memory. They hadn't cut deep enough yet to disrupt cognitive ability—but then, they had time. As long as he lived.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he'd wake from the touch of a hand and attack without thought, because it was the one thing, the only thing, he knew. They never took him willingly, no matter how stupid it was to fight four, six, ten guards, all fit and healthy and far more ready for combat than he was. He'd never go on his own feet, never let them have that much, never let them believe that he would ever resign himself to this. It was the one thing, the only thing, that he kept, when they'd taken everything else. Scott Summers didn't break. Ever.

Amsterdam was hot and sticky with summer, the humidity high even in the expensive, air-conditioned hotel suite with black-market liquor prominently displayed on the sideboard. Pulling at the collar of his shirt, he glanced out the window, watching the quiet residents pass their day in almost normal pursuits, things he could remember once doing so long ago that maybe those memories were simply faded, not removed. Or maybe they'd never existed to begin with—Scott couldn't imagine ever being comfortable walking down the street, exposed to any gaze, any attack, any betrayal.

Leaning back against the wall by the window, the door fixed in his peripheral vision, he watched Logan perform his self-imposed search duties—no matter that the room had been examined down to the floor beneath the carpet at least twice before they'd set foot in Amsterdam. Both Erik and Logan had sent hand-picked teams to study the suite, the hotel, and the landing area inch by inch. Of course, Logan trusted no one and nothing to be as thorough as he was himself. That was a given. Scott Summers, leader of the X-Men, was too valuable to risk even in the little things.

Scott was almost used to Logan's almost habitual paranoia, barely blinked as the bed was unmade, the chair cushions disassembled, and the rugs removed and left outside for Remy to deal with. He'd seen it before—in every compromised area, this ritual would be performed with painfully meticulous attention. In a way Scott would never, ever admit, it gave life a certain amount of predictability. Remy would always hit on a woman within five minutes in any given location, Logan would always be paranoid, and Scott would be quiet and enjoy the show.

"You and my mother would get along well," Scott told him, shifting against the wall. He got a half-hearted grunt in response, before Logan straightened, shaking his head sharply as he took one last view of the room. Well, maybe Logan was gaining faith in his own security team—this search was at least three minutes shorter than normal. "Would you like to walk me to the bathroom, too? In case of a hostile toilet?"

"You bitch a lot, you know that, Summers?" Logan gave the room another glance, then nodded to himself. "All clear. How long?"

Scott checked his watch and pushed himself away from the wall. Inactivity made him twitchy, always had.

"Ten minutes."

Logan nodded slowly and pulled out a reassembled desk chair, dropping into it and taking a breath.

"He doesn't trust the cities we have under our control," Logan observed. "Rhode Island would have been just as secure and a hell of a lot more convenient."

"Amsterdam was reclassified as a mutant safe zone well before we took over Rhode Island."

Logan gave him a sardonic glance that gave his opinion of that entire situation. Which was, to wit, Erik Lensherr didn't trust them any more than they trusted him, despite the aid and the sanctuary to survivors. Some scars were slow in healing.

"Neutral ground, you mean. Human and mutant." Logan had problems with that, in terms of basic security. Amsterdam was literally a neutral zone—mutant-friendly human families had settled here as well as mutants and neutrals alike, but there was too high a price on Scott's head for Logan to feel comfortable even with supposed sympathizers and neutrals. Rhode Island had two things going for it—it was relatively isolated from the mainland, and it was under total mutant control. Bobby and Remy had cleared it of all humans, moving them into the first of the east coast internment camps in Georgia. A temporary measure which both Scott and Logan had reluctantly agreed with, but if Scott had anything to say about it, the internment camps would be burned and the ground salted as soon as the war ended. Just thinking about them gave Scott a headache, and he rubbed his temples lightly before turning to glance at the door. Logan caught the look.

"Remy and Sam are out there." Probably bored out of their minds or flirting with the staff. They'd been at the hotel for almost two hours with nothing to do but stand in the hall and look vaguely threatening. Which, admittedly, both were very good at, but still.

Scott nodded and pulled his jacket off, dropping it on the edge of the ornate, four-poster bed. Trust Erik to pick out the gaudiest hotel in the damn city. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he winced. Still too thin, almost emaciated, but the face that looked back at him was more familiar. Hank and Jean had done wonders with the scars. Scott kept his hair cropped short in war conditions—practical, in the life they led right now—but the scar on the back of his head was a vivid reminder to everyone that saw it. Almost unconsciously, he reached up to rub the thickened tissue, jerking away at the first touch.

"He should have arrived by now."

"He doesn't trust us."

"And that's a pretty obvious statement even for you, Scooter."

Scott began to answer, but the touch deep in his mind took the words. His wife slipped into his mind, sliding through on cool fingers of thought. She was awake, and apparently in Cerebro. Catching Logan's gaze, he saw the other man shudder, almost imperceptibly, then Logan shook his head quickly, hazel eyes meeting his with the lightest trace of embarrassment.

"Still getting used to it."

Scott grinned. "She'll get better at it."

Scott heard Jean's silent laugh echo gently in his mind.

"At least I'm conscious," Logan answered easily, and Scott couldn't help the grin, remembering Logan's shock the first time Jean had initiated the link. He was saving that memory back for a day when his sense of humor returned for more than brief appearances. "Much longer, we leave."

Scott didn't want to have this argument again, and especially not today. Logan thought he was irreplaceable. He could very well be right, but it wasn't a comfortable knowledge.

Jean silently reinforced Logan's statement. Scott sometimes wondered if Logan had agreed to the link simply to have back-up from Jean whenever possible, not just for the benefit of being able to finally start splitting up their forces. Shaking his head, he pulled out a reassembled chair and Logan went to the door, knocking once. Remy opened it, and they carried on a short conversation before he closed it again, a ghost of a smile turning up his lips. Scott knew that smile very well, almost didn't need to ask.

"Remy said Erik's plane just landed. Ten minutes or less."

Scott tilted his head, seeing something flare briefly in Logan's eyes.

"Who's with him?"

"Mystique and Toad, couple others."

That explained it. Scott leaned back, taking a breath. He could guess the direction of Logan's thoughts already and almost smiled himself. Familiarity, routine, security, loyalty, vengeance, synonyms for Logan. Some things never changed.

"Toad?"

"Yeah."

"Here?"

Logan shrugged, staring at the far wall.

"No place better."

"Be careful."

Logan grinned, a baring of his teeth that had nothing to do with humor.

"Always."

Scott nodded, satisfied. Vaguely, he felt he should say something, maybe tell him not to do it, except it really wouldn't stop Logan, and Scott really didn't care enough to make the effort.

"I sent Lensherr a message about Victor's death," Scott said slowly, watching Logan's face. "He didn't seem suspicious."

"We all have our hobbies, Summers. I'm better at mine than most." Scott half-turned at the sound of the desk drawer open to watch Logan going methodically through it—this time not looking for threat. After a few minutes, he shut the drawers, leaning back without any change of expression, but Scott knew what he'd been looking for, and sighed to himself. Her face was one Scott knew as well as his own by now—dark eyes and the beginnings of a smile curving soft childish lips. With the link active, Scott's fingers twitched a little, rubbing absently over his jeans to remove the nonexistent traces of charcoal and lead.

Jean had called it coping.

God, Jean... Jean had changed too, and Scott found himself reaching out through the link, needing to feel her again, even this very different woman than the one he'd married—God, three years before? That was all? Instantly, she was with him, so different, but still his Jean. God, so different than the link had ever been before, the rich flow of her power and personality over him. From flatline catatonia to this.

_—Shh. Don't worry so much.—_

He let out a breath at the feel of her, soothing, grounding, reminding him what he was doing here in the first place.

_:::When are you returning from Genosha?:::_

_:::As soon as Piotr and Kitty are certain they can rebuild Cerebro, my love. They've been working on the blueprints for several days. It should be soon. Perhaps a week.:::_

Scott nodded, letting the link fade a little before building up his personal shields again, giving him the space he needed in his mind. She'd returned to America twice since he'd sent her to Genosha for post-camp care—unable to accompany her himself, he'd almost driven himself crazy, unable to feel her mind, and communications so spotty that it'd been weeks between contact. With Betsy, she'd returned once Cerebro was almost complete at Genosha, and he'd been—

—stunned when he felt her, when she reactivated the link between them and everything flared to painful life before she could control it, he knew everything, _everything_.

He didn't remember much of that week after. But he remembered how they touched her body and shattered her mind and bruised her soul.

Shutting his eyes, Scott controlled the memories, not wanting her or Logan to feel it, knowing the other man would read it in his face. Taking a breath, he forced the memories back, the things done to her and forced into her and ripped through her. Things that hurt to think about, that he hadn't been in time, made him want to watch Atlanta burn again. And enjoy it just a little more.

One with Logan, he supposed idly, in the need for revenge. He couldn't pretend to himself any longer that he just wanted his freedom and the freedom of his people. It was more, and he'd gone beyond the restrictions of a just war more times than his conscience could easily handle.

But consciences were expensive things, and he'd found over time, he simply could no longer afford one.

A soft, precise knock alerted them both and Scott straightened, readying himself for this first meeting since Daytona. The door opened quietly and he turned, watching Erik Lensherr and Raven come in—Raven in her promotional form of Senator Kelley, as usual, though she discarded it as soon as the door was shut and arranged herself like a cat in an armchair by the door, eyes flickering to Logan briefly for possible threat.

And maybe Scott was the only one that saw the almost invisible flicker in the hazel eyes that stared back at her, the way they took the measure of the other woman in a quick, barely-visible glance before the lashes hid whatever went within and Logan let his chair down, turning his full attention on Scott. He'd had seen that look before once, knew what it meant even if Erik didn't, if Raven didn't. Of course, they didn't know how Sabretooth had died either.

Strangely, it was Logan that had been the one to push this interview.

"Summers." Erik's nod was almost formal, and Scott forced himself to respond, leaning back into the desk, Logan's presence strangely comforting—but it had been that way for so long, he didn't even bother to wonder about it anymore. Quiet strength, overwhelming presence, and a distinct ability to give the impression only boredom was keeping him from killing everyone in the room. The quick, almost invisible glance from Erik showed how well it was working. Good. They were already on unequal terms—let him wonder if Logan carried a grudge still, even if Logan was the reason this meeting was happening at all.

"You wanted to see me."

Warren and Jean had pushed for this too, the necessity. He didn't have to like Erik's politics or his beliefs—he needed him anyway. Scott accepted the practicality of it—that winning this war needed Erik and his resources, his followers, and his influence. And it needed Mystique to take her position as the mutated Senator Kelley for all to see.

Needed one more thing, one that Scott had agreed with when he watched Atlanta burn from the seat of the Blackbird, surrounded by frightened and injured fellow mutants, holding the unresponsive body of his wife. It was a lie, but somehow, that just didn't matter as much as it once had.

"You've done well." Erik's voice was soft, edged with something else, and for the first time, Scott looked into the eyes and noted the changes that three years could make—the weight gained, the thin face slightly filled out from starvation conditions, the luxuriant white hair that Erik had kept until their guards had shaved it off, the elegant body, dressed in the finest silk suit, that moved with a slow, careful grace.

Remembered with a burning pain that spread through his chest, the last time he'd seen this man, remembered watching Erik's struggles to get to Xavier's body after a bullet silenced that brilliant mind forever.

Remembered Xavier telling him to believe before everything ended in a haze of red and pain and terrible loss. Erik's hoarse voice somewhere far away from Scott's own utter shock, as the other man stumbled through the rank-smelling mud and cradled the lifeless bloody body in his arms, the first time Scott knew for certain that he would never be able to believe again. Not in that dream, not in the innate goodness of humankind, not in anything he couldn't personally control.

"What do you want?" It was more blunt than he wanted it to be, but seeing the raw grief and anger and hate in Erik was just too much—reminded him how much of it was in himself, how often he unleashed it and with so little regard to who got in its way.

A shrug of elegant shoulders, before the older man lowered himself gracefully into a chair—the grace cultivated to hide the scarring on his shoulders, back, and thighs, the reason he'd never run again, the reason his walk was always so precise.

It was a reminder of children in Canada and Genosha still in pain, of Johnny trapped within his own mind in Hank's Canadian sanctuary, Kurt's amputated tail and the scars criss-crossing his chest and hips, and the way Kitty flinched when someone came too close....

He shivered and turned his gaze down.

"To assist you."

In more than sheltering the mutants they'd freed, sending money and supplies and weaponry, more than taking Jean in and caring for her until she'd regained her control and her mind, returning her to him as a stranger who had ripped apart the minds of men in their custody as she searched for the information they needed so desperately. More than had already been done—and Mystique's presence was here for that reason.

"You think she can pull it off?" He jerked his head at Mystique, knew she was stiffening at the implied doubt.

Magneto never hesitated.

"A telepath will remain with her, to assure that—accidents do not occur." A pause, the gaze fixing on him. "It will help you, Scott. To win."

A slow nod, and Scott felt Logan's assent, Jean's silent assurance that this was the way of it. That it had to be.

"All right. What about Senator Kelley's family—"

An unpleasant smile curved the other man's face, cutting off the words and the thought. He should have guessed, of course.

"They won't be any trouble, Scott, so don't fret yourself."

He could have asked, but he didn't. And on some level, he didn't even care.

"All right." With an oblique glance at Logan, Scott took out the sheet of paper, folded and refolded so many times that the edges were frayed, the folds fragile. Taking a step, he dropped it on the table beside Erik's chair. "You started this."

The grey eyebrows jumped, and slowly, Erik lifted it, unfolding it, running his fingers absently over the edges, then looked up in surprise.

"I wasn't aware these were present in America."

Scott shrugged, resting his weight on his other foot, feeling Logan's intense interest. Erik's gaze slid to Logan briefly.

"The latest of your recruits was circulating them on the West Coast. Where did you get the original?"

Another slight shrug, but Scott detected the stiffness in the man's body.

"When I decamped from Daytona, I needed supplies. It was in the Canadian sanctuary." An oblique smile that hid far too much for Scott's liking, his glance sliding to Logan. "He did it, didn't he?"

The growl was mental only, but Scott found himself having to choke it back in his own throat. Scott hesitated, then nodded as Erik spread the photocopied sketch out, looking at the dark eyes that hadn't seen the world in four years, the print beneath that told who she was and why she had died. He wondered what it said about his mental stability, that he knew the face of a dead girl more perfectly than that of his wife.

"Yes." A pause. "How many of those do you have?"

Erik smoothed the paper again, a slightly bitter smile turning his mouth.

"Printed?"

"The originals. How many did you take?"

Erik blinked, the grey blue eyes lighting up.

"There are more?"

Scott hesitated, then took a breath, turning and picking up the briefcase from the floor beneath the desk. With another glance at Logan's blank face, he opened it and removed the stack. Turning, he crossed the two steps separating him from Erik and placed them on the small table.

For a moment, silence, and Erik's fingers slid through the sheets, almost caressing.

"You support this?" It was more than asking about something as simple as using Rogue to further the cause and they both knew it. Scott didn't want to—but somewhere in his mind he was still kneeling in the cold mud while Erik cradled Xavier's unmoving body, dirty-grey head bent, whispering words Scott couldn't hear in a voice choked with hate and grief and promises of revenge.

Sometimes, in the shower, Scott thought he'd never be clean of that dirt again, of the blood and splattered bone and pieces of flesh that clung to his memory if not his body. And sometimes, just sometimes, he stopped wanting to be.

"Yes. We want these everywhere. People read that, they see—" He broke off, trying to think through what he was saying. The reason Logan had argued with exhausting, implacable patience. "They'll know why we're fighting. They'll know—"

"They'll know what to die for."

Logan certainly did. He wanted to—with Jubilee gone, there was nothing left to ground him. This was it—one picture, one dead girl, one inescapable goal. Scott wondered if Logan thought he was hiding that from anyone.

"Yes."

Erik picked up the first sketch, slowly nodding.

"I can have them everywhere in a matter of days."

Scott nodded slowly and pulled up a chair. It was time.

"Let's talk about direct Genoshan intervention in the war, Erik. We want to win."


	9. True Believer

_"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you."_   
_—Frederick Wilhelm Nietzche_

* * *

_—The room was stacked with cold bodies, bagged and tagged.—_

_—Laboratory. I recognized it, remembered it from another life, another time—as I paced the room, my white coat fluttering around me, giving orders in a shrill voice as someone kept calling the evacuation codes.—_

_—"We have to get out, Doctor," someone told me, grabbing my arm and I jerked away, yelling—something. Something about neutralizing the other subjects, something about—about yes, those other mutant bitches downstairs. If they took this lab, they'd only get mangled bodies, nothing else, and I had given the order hours ago, so why the hell weren't they all dead yet?—_

_—"Doctor, your staff left. No one wants to be here when Summers arrives." Cowards, I spat. Cowards. Filthy muties outside and everyone ducked like they were a real threat, when we had the way to kill them all. Angrily, I turned around and there was a sharp sound—the person holding my arm collapsed onto the floor, blood dripping over the pristine white tile._

_I already knew what I'd see, with the red visor of the man appeared, hand touching the controls._

_—"Where are they?"—_

_—I darted for the far door, the beam just missing me. I remembered in Tucson, when this man had been in my laboratory, and I smiled a little as I thought of the tissue samples in this very lab, wondered what he'd think to know his body had made so much possible for us—so damn much.—_

_—Something pushed me into the wall and I was lifted into it, my head jerked around before I could find a clear breath—and a hand closed with casual strength around my throat.—_

_—"Downstairs," the man behind me—mutant, not man, not human. "What are the codes, doctor?"—_

_—I spit blood into the wall and wondered if someone had started the gas yet downstairs—God, let something go right.—_

_—"Dead," I choked out and was turned around, my feet danging from the floor. Cool hazel eyes studied me without a trace of anything. Not human, I reminded myself. Less than lab animals—at least they were natural, not these unnatural monstrosities. The hand on my throat lightened a little and he tilted his head.—_

_—"Trial or casualty?" asked the man of someone, and there were others coming through the doors—more of the mutants, but I didn't recognize any of them. Summers walked up behind the man holding me and gave me a long look, and the cruel animal cunning on his face chilled me. Humans didn't look like that.—_

_—"I remember him," the mutant answered. "Send him to New York with the others."—_

_—"Sure?"—_

_—Summers grinned then and touched the other man on the shoulder.—_

_—"Only when necessary. Shadowcat's in the computers now—she's getting the locations." A pause. "Make sure the doctor can stand trial on his own feet, Wolverine."—_

_—The man holding me smiled slowly and I felt the hand on my throat tighten, breath stopping.—_

_—Bastards. Let the gas work...—_

"Mutie freaks!"

Hands were around me, holding me down, the fucking muties trying to—trying to—

"Marie, baby. Wake up."

I jerked from the hands, found the floor with my hands and tried to struggle to my feet. They'd flipped the lights of the lab off, how the _hell_ had they gotten to the power generator so damn fast?

"Marie, baby." Warm fingers on my face. "Marie, it's okay. Look at me."

Marie. Marie.

_Marie._ Me.

Blinking, I took in the warm, dark silence of the apartment and collapsed into the floor, looking up at Logan sitting on the edge of the bed.

"God," I whispered softly, and he dropped to the floor beside me, gathering me into a close embrace. "Oh God, Logan, he was—" Filthy with hate, this was what they'd seen, what they'd lived with? Shuddering, I wrapped my arms around Logan and buried my face in his shoulder as his hands smoothed down my back. My teeth chattered together from the force of my shaking.

"Jeannie's shields were temporary—just a second." He pulled back a little and then the cool metal of the collar circled my throat. My mind magically silenced, the crawling sick feelings slipping backward and out, disappearing into the haze of my mind. With painful gentleness, Logan's hands stroked down my back again, soothing tight muscles, kneading my shoulders until the last of the tension faded.

"Logan," I whispered, wondering how I could tell him. "He—he was—he worked on Scott."

There was the briefest stiffness to his body, damning for someone who had so much control.

"You have a name?"

"Dr. Michael Perry." I breathed out, letting the words roll off. "He—he escaped before the trials, didn't he?"

"Yeah."

"He's dead. I killed him." Something like satisfaction chased itself through me, and I couldn't—I didn't even try to stop it.

No answer—he knew I didn't need one. Fingers moved gently into my hair, easing against my scalp in an old caress, one the other Logan had used often enough. I opened my eyes, keeping them fixed on the dark room—nothing like that coldly sterile lab, Logan's body nothing like corpses that man had dissected with such pleasure.

"He didn't think of us as people."

"They couldn't adn still do what they did, Marie."

Was that comforting? I leaned into each stroke, trying to push the thoughts aside, ground myself back in the room again, but the images—God, this was too much.

I'd never really understood—I'd suffered prejudice since I'd manifested, all kinds, all ways. From snubs when I went shopping to the anti-mutant rhetoric regularly screamed at any mutant fundraiser or across national television. I'd lived with the reality of teh Sentinels, the FoH, the congressmen who followed Kelley's lead with such pleasure.

It was the difference between dreaming and waking. That room was the real thing, all in stark white and grey. That's what the prejudice really meant—not little cards for us to carry to tell what we were. Living bodies to experiment on, less than people, less than sentient.

"I'm sorry," I whispered against Logan's shoulder, and his hands slid to my face, drawing my head back. Serious hazel eyes studied me carefully. "You—all those things I've said, I've thought—they were wrong, Logan. That—that was what you went through, wasn't it? All of that."

A pause, then Logan nodded slowly, and I bit into my lip, pushing the images aside.

"Come back to bed." An arm slid around me, pulling me up, cradling me like teh child I'd been years before. No, hours before. Nothing in the camp, nothing I'd seen or heard, could compare with _knowing_. I'd always knew they'd hated us.

I'd just never known how much.

"We have to meet with Jeannie and Scooter in the morning," Logan said as he laid me down, sliding in beside me, large and warm and soothing. A powerful talisman against nightmares, and he let me wind myself all around him, burying my head against his chest and closing my eyes tightly.

I needed him to remind me that dream, those people, that place, were over. Before I'd stepped foot in this world, he and Scott had destroyed it.

* * *

Well, my life was taking a serious turn for suckage, no question.

Scott, Logan and I gathered in the conference room, trying to look casual about the fact that the girl they thought was seven years dead was living, breathing, and fucking the X-Men's second in command. I'd turned off the emitter, shrugging at Logan's raised brows—there was no reason for it now. Brown hair slid in front of my eyes, and it jarred me a little to see it outside of our bedroom. A little desperately, I pushed the short hair back behind my ear, trying to find a safe place to rest my gaze.

The floor seemed the only logical choice. Every time I found a good wall, Scott seemed to move in that direction.

Jean had run her last test and was still in the lab, correlating results or something along those lines. Logan hadn't let me any farther away from him than the length of his arm and was currently seated beside me, warm and safe and utterly at ease, as if he protected random Rogues on a yearly basis and it was quite the thing to do. Scott was leaning against the wall by the door, watching me as if he expected me to bolt at the slightest hint of trouble.

He wasn't far wrong. Logan's hand on my thigh was the only thing keeping me in place. I couldn't help the involuntary twitch of my muscles every time Scott's gaze rested on me, taking in again the difference between the Marie Danvers he'd known and the Rogue he'd watched die. Had to be something of a shock, even with the link between him and Jean confirming my identity. All things considered, this could have gone much, much worse.

Though really, not by much.

Logan and I hadnt' managed to get back to sleep the night before. I'd been shaking so badly I hadn't even been able to relax, and his arms had tightened around me and he'd told me that everything was fine, everything would be fine. That had just been the dream.

Dawn had brought the knowledge of this interview. Logan made me drink half a pot of coffee and sat me down, telling me nothing would change.

Riiight. Nothing at all. Two of the most powerful mutants on the planet and designers of the Polaris Project were now aware that the live and in concert Rogue was back, perhaps for a repeat performance. Something was going to change. And it didn't look good any way I sliced it.

With Jean's shields more stable this morning, I had safe skin, but no inner Logan or Carol, and the emptiness of my mind was disconcerting. I searched a little, then settled back in the real world, discomfitted. It felt wrong, unnatural. I'd been too many people for far too long. It was too much change for me to absorb this fast.

"Rogue," Scott said slowly, tasting the name as if he'd never heard it before, flickering a glance to Logan. It wasn't my imagination—Logan shifted a little closer to me, gaze fixed on Scott with something that was two steps from hostile. "When were you going to tell us?"

"I didn't think it'd come up."

An eyebrow raised slowly—sometimes, it was disorienting to see how much Logan and Scott echoed each other. I shifted in my seat, felt Logan's hand tighten on my leg in warning. Ah, alpha male crap. Got it. Go right on ahead, sugar.

"Not come up?"

Logan shrugged.

"You know the dangers, Scooter."

"'Seven years of trust against one choice'," Scott quoted mockingly, and I felt myself flush. "Glad to see it goes both ways."

Logan winced from the accurate shot, and I knew Scott had to have seen it, no matter how brief it was. This Scott knew this Logan far too well. I wanted to step between them, say something. This was just wrong—completely, absolutely wrong on so many levels.

"It was my fault, Scott," I heard myself say, Logan's soft groan a breath behind, and pushed through anyway. I'd never been noted for my subtlety before, after all. "He—I put him in this position. I didn't—I didn't know what you'd do if you—if you found out who I was. What I was."

Scott's gaze was fixed on Logan with utter absorption, but the answer was for me.

"What did you think I'd do?" Scott pushed off the wall with easy grace, pacing to the far wall. Scott had to be moving—it was almost intrinsic, something I was used to seeing. A stressed Scott was living perpetual motion, needing action and reaction as he organized his thoughts. A pissed Scott was that times ten. The red gaze fixed on me with something very, very close to rage. "Lock you downstairs and hand you over to Lensherr without a thought? What the _hell_ do you think I am?"

I got the feeling that what I'd witnessed in the tower would be nothing compared to this if it wasn't played right. Getting to my feet, I stepped between them, getting all of Scott's glare. Crap, I'd never stand up to that. I'd never been able to, not in the other world, not here. He'd always known how to make his authority into a weapon. The only difference was this Scott was sharper, harder in different ways. He'd learned more about power and how to use it than the other Scott ever had—or ever would have wanted to.

"I don't know," I said softly, keeping my back straight, meeting his gaze without flinching. It was the bravest thing I'd ever done in my life. "If you were dropped in the middle of an FoH camp, would you tell them you were a mutant?"

The white teeth were almost bared in a smile. No humor there. No understanding either.

"I'm not FoH."

"No, " I answered, holding his gaze. "You're Scott Summers, leader of the X-Men, who gave the okay for Polaris to be butchered in my place. Tell me to believe you wouldn't strap me into that thing again to die for the greater good of mutantkind if that was necessary."

"Don't." It was low, even, and raised all the hair on my body. I locked my hands behind my back, trying to conceal their shaking, hoping the rest of my body didn't betray me too. "Don't even try. That's bullshit"

"I made the decision, Summers." Oh fuck, Logan, he doesn't _need_ two targets here. Logan's hands closed over mine and he must have felt the shaking, and I didn't need supercharged senses to pick up active hostile anger. Logan passively hostile was never a good thing, but when he let it loose, scary things were known to happen. The Brotherhood knew this intimately. In this world, stripped of the entrapments of the X-Men's ideals—I didn't want to know. I really didn't. "Take it up with me, not her."

"Marie." Jean was at the door—from the look on her face, the hurried step as she entered the room, she'd picked up what was going on in here. Oh thank God. I certainly didn't know how to handle this, what to do with it. I'd never been strong enough to stand up to this sort of power. "Marie, come with me, please."

"Jeannie—" Logan turned toward, her, keeping his tight grip on my hands, and Scott stiffened. This was going worse than badly, and Jean saw that too. Before the tension could get worse, I turned around, getting a hand free, and reached up, catching his jaw in one hand, forcing him to look at me.

"Logan, please."

There was a tense moment, where I thought he'd fight it—and he very well might have. He wanted out of here so badly I could taste it, feel it crawl along every nerve in my body. After a moment, though, the hazel eyes met mine and held for a minute, and I tried to put everything of reassurance I could in my face and body. He squeezed my hand, lifting it to brush a kiss across my perfectly safe wrist, before nodding. Reluctantly, I turned away, and Jean stepped aside to let me pass in front of her. Almost instantly, she shut the door, just in time to muffle the sound of metal and something breaking.

She stopped me from going back with a hand on my arm.

"Don't. This is between them, Marie."

No, it really wasn't. It was me—what I'd done to make him betray his friends. I wondered what I'd see when I looked into Jean's eyes, kept my gaze fixed on the door. No raised voices yet.

"I reopened the link," Jean said, pulling me gently down the hall. "It's harder for them to fight when they can feel how badly they hurt each other."

Blinking, I looked up at Jean. That was inspired. She caught my gaze and grinned with all the charm of a little girl with the perfect plan to steal cookies. She knew these men far too well.

"I've had a lot of time to figure out how to handle them. They don't like it, but at least they blame me for makign them sensitive and they don't think it reflects on their masculinity if it's all my fault that they make up fast. Don't worry about it."

"It's my fault,"I answered as she gently pushed me into the lab, and the door shut behidn us on its own. The room was chilly and quiet, sterile white, and I stiffened automatically, but Jean's gentle touch was everywhere—the masses of papers that looked like a mess and was actually a cleverly disguised form of Jean-specific organization. I almost expected her to push me to the medical bed I'd spent the better part of the morning in, but instead, two chair skittered out from behind some sort of blinking medical machinery I couldn't recognize and situated themselves near a small table. She smiled at my reaction and took one of the chairs, waiting patiently as I hesitantly took the other.

"It _is_ your fault, but under the circumstances..." she shrugged a little, taking a breath and letting it out slowly, her hand back on her abdomen, rubbing slowly, almost as if to comfort herself. "Scott understands. That's what's frustrating him most. Once he believed, that is." She shrugged and a carafe of water hovered over the table suddenly, before seating itself between us, followed by two glasses. I'd never get used to this, or stop enjoying when Jean played with her TK.

Looking at Jean, there was very little of the shock I'd been expecting—she'd taken it very coolly on the plane, though I found out a little later I'd been pretty out of it for over two hours. She'd had a good adjustment period there.

"You believe me, don't you?"

"I was in your mind," Jean answered, pouring a glass of water by hand and taking a drink. Fixing the brown eyes on me, she shrugged. "It would be very difficult to create memories, and I'd feel the difference between reality and artifice. Gene tests don't lie either, and before Rogue's body was buried, I took samples. Most of our records were tranferred to Canada before the war, so I have the originals still."

Practical, that. Slowly, I poured some water myself, taking a drink more for something to do than anythign else. I wondered what I could say to her now.

"I—I'm sorry," I blurted out, and got the clear gaze of two very steady brown eyes. Flushing, I looked back down at the glass. "I don't—I don't know what I can do or say that will make it make sense, but I couldn't—I mean, Logan never would have—"

"Logan would let the school burn if he thought it would help you, Marie." I winced, turning my head away. "His concerns about Erik are understandable, though. Erik's uncertain whether the machine will perform properly—several volunteers died in the trial run with Polaris. Logan is right—Erik can't know who or what you are." She paused for a moment, sipping from her glass idly. "You consulted with Hank?"

"Yes."

Jean frowned a little as her fingers traced over the surface of the table in idle thought.

"What? He's against the project."

"He's also opposed to more human deaths."

A horrible suspicion uncoiled in my mind.

"You—he wouldn't tell Magneto, would he?" No, he wouldn't. Turning a few thousand humans into mutants had to be against the ethics.

"If he thought that there was no choice—" Jean frowned again. "I don't know. Hank's a believer—sometimes, I'm not sure what it is he believes." She shook her head slowly, brushing a strand behind her ear. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Are the shields holding up well?"

Blinking, I touched my forehead uncertainly.

"Little rough last night, but yeah." I paused, trying to think of a way to frame the question, then gave up and went for the bald approach. "How? I mean—my power is in my skin, so why—"

"Your skin absorbs the energy, yes, but everything starts in the brain," Jean answered easily. "It's similar to empathy, except for the ability to mimic, or copy, other mutations. Currently, with my shields in place, there is nowhere for the energy to go—a braker has been pulled, so to speak." She smiled again at my gape mouthed shock. I suppose I must have looked pretty funny at that. "It's a temporary measure, but it should help you a little until I can begin analysis on your mutation and find a way for you to build these yourself."

I tried to think through that adn couldn't.

"I don't—there is no way to control it."

Jean's head tilted a little.

"What makes you think that?"

Well, seven years of trying everything known to man or beast, actually, and some things just thrown in for the hell of it. I couldn't quite answer, but Jean must have read it on my face and leaned forward, her hand touching mine. Instinctively, I jerked away, before the long fingers closed on my wrist and stayed there.

"We'll find a way."

I shook my head.

"You couldn't in my world."

Jean grinned then, brown eyes warm and filled with light, her power thrumming through us both as she strengthened her shields inside my mind, inch by inch, walling away every foreign memory and every grafted person that wasn't Marie until the silence was so deafening I wondered if anyone else could hear it.

God. It was so strange, and scary, and addicting as all hell. So much like the collar and so very little.

"I'm not her."

No, she wasn't. Staring at those brown eyes, feeling her power against my skin like heat, I felt my mouth go dry.

"I've wondered why you look at me like that," she commented, freeing my wrist and picking up her glass. "I suppose I'm different as well?"

Blinking, I considered, nodding a little.

"Yeah." Needed water now, definitely. Taking a drink, I tilted my head. "You're not—not this strong."

"Hmm." Jean nodded a little, obviously thinking about it. "Is there—Scott and I—" she paused, obviously searching for a way to ask the question.

"Together, happy," I answered easily, taking another drink of water. "Though as far as I know, no plans for conception." Suddenly, it occurred to me what had happened the day before—oh God, they'd hurt her. "Are you—"

Jean laughed softly.

"Fine, Marie." A hand dropped unconsciously to her stomach, rubbing softly. "I checked myself out the second we got back. Everything is fine."

I blew out a breath I hadn't known I was holding and leaned back into my chair, smiling a little.

"That's good." Really good, actually. Jean had a strangely absent smile on her face, and it sent a strange pang through me—God, obviously I was post-menstrual here, if I was feeling cuddly maternal feelings. Shaking it off, I took another drink of water and stared at the door. "You think they're done yet?"

Jean cocked her head briefly, a little flash of mischief lighting her eyes.

"They're trying to figure out how to apologize without saying anything. Scott suggested they check out the jet." The grin widened. "Little post-bonding ritual—during the war, it was cleaning the weaponry." Jean gave me a smile. "Come on—we can watch and mock them a little."

Grinning, I stood up, finishing my glass of water. There was still so much to talk about—but at least now, there was a future to talk about. I was all for that.

* * *

My uniform was dead. Literally. Jean refitted me while Logan went through stores to find new accessories, and Scott didn't protest once. Nor did he take me off the roster for the next mission, which was--well, interesting. I couldn't be exactly sure what that was saying--either he trusted Logan to keep me in line during missions or wanted to keep me under his eye at all times. Scott was like that.

I'd been wandering the school for awhile, checking the fit, when behind me, rapidly approaching footsteps skidded to a halt. I paused and turned around, meeting St. John's bright smile.

"Marie--" he stopped, smile fading, and I couldn't quite figure out why. The blue eyes slicked my body quick and fast, then snapped up to mine. Blank. "Nice uniform."

I looked down, blinking, then grinned a little.

"Thanks. There's a mission in about an hour, and my last uniform was sort of--well, nuked. This is the new one, and Logan wants me to wear it for a bit. It was made so fast he's not sure if it's flexible enough." I shrugged, stretching my shoulders--there was a tiny pull at the neck that was easy to correct for, but my legs and arms were fine as far as I could tell.

St. John was staring at me a little blankly for a minute, then a quick, almost natural smile slid into place.

"Logan's anal about the fits." His eyes traveled down and fixed on my gun briefly, then back up to my face. "Erik and Polaris have returned," he said casually as he matched my stride down the hall.

"Oh?" Hank still wanted that tape of the last trial run to see if there was anything that he could have his calculations, and I wondered how Logan was going to get it--could he do it without raising suspicions? Okay, spying _not_ my forte here, and I had to smile a little. "Good."

"Yeah." Little pause. "They're moving up the date of the implementation of the project--The last trial is tonight. The real thing will be in two days, once Polaris has recovered." Casual.

"Oh." Huh. Tonight. I wondered if Logan knew yet.

"You--I heard the last mission went badly."

Jerking a little, I shivered in memory and caught another look from St. John.

"It--we all survived. The bodies were returned to the lab and the norms were taken to the lower levels for isolation--"

"Don't worry. I had the bodies," St. John answered easily, and I frowned, surprised.

"I thought that was only for attacks to the school."

"Any of them could carry contagion, Marie. We still don't know what they came up with in those labs--they could carry a virus in their bloodstream. Standard procedure." St. John paused, giving me another glance. "It's the safest thing to do."

"We might have gotten physical evidence from their bodies. DNA samples, or--"

"I thought Jean did the samples the night they were brought in," St. John said slowly, and there it was again. Unfamiliar twitch in the back of my mind. "Damn. I'd better go talk to her--she might not even know I've disposed of them. Excuse me, Marie." Turning on his heel, he took off down the other direction and I reached out to stop him.

"Johnny--they know." I paused, glancing around. No one was in the hallway. "About--about me."

"Good." He gave me a long look. "I know it must have been rough out there--I heard Scott was knocked out--"

"They used those guns," I answered. "There--I had--had to kill one of them. Former camp scientist." For some reason, I felt almost violently uncomfortable now, with St. John's calm gaze fixed on my face. "It--was necessary. Everyone else was out--"

"Hey, no need to explain. X-Men have the right of execution for treasonable offenses. Kidnapping the leader of the X-Men is treason and felony all wrapped up in one. I gotta run, Marie." Pulling away, he took off again and left me standing in the corridor, confused as to what exactly had just happened.

Not since our first meeting had he been so guarded.

* * *

"Baby--" A nudge at my elbow and I kicked lightly with my heel, hearing Logan's soft grunt. I was awake, but I was trying _really_ hard to pretend I wasn't.

"Tired."

Warm lips brushed against the side of my throat, finding all the sensitive spots that just made me crazy. He _knew_ that. The bastard. Growling, I tried to push him away and got my arm pinned to the bed for my trouble.

I loved him, that was true. But right now, I'd send him to hell for another two hours of sleep.

"We gotta get to the school, baby." His hand joined the battle, sliding under the sheet and slipping over my t-shirt and down my thigh. I shut my eyes tighter and buried my head in the pillow until he rolled me on my back.

  
I took the pillow with me.

"Come on, Marie."

"Don't wanna." That didn't sound as strong as I meant to be through the pillow. I heard Logan's sigh before he stripped the blankets back. I growled into the pillow. "It's not even dawn yet."

"Yeah." A little breathy--I wondered what he was thinking. Maybe something worth waking up for. I was a big fan of that. Removing the pillow from my face, I tucked it back behind my head. "You gettin' up?"

"You make it worth my while?"

Oh, that was a new expression. A wolfish grin parted his lips, baring his teeth a little, before he grabbed my ankles and jerked me toward him. The pillow and I skidded across the bed, and my head slipped right off the mattress.

That was it. We were getting a new bed. Something bigger.

"Logan--" My hips were in his lap and I thought about levering myself up to see what the idea was now. He might tickle me. He'd done it before.

Instead, bare fingers ran down the length of my thighs, rubbing lightly into the muscles, working slowly back up from my knees to my hips. I heard myself sigh softly, trying to lift my head back up onto the bed, but a hand on my chest pushed me back down and I had an upside down view of the room. Lightly, the tips of his fingers skated across my stomach and then both hands slid circled my waist, rubbing slow circles deep into my skin. I shut my eyes to take in the sensation--almost chaste, this touching, but not quite. I felt the brush of his sideburns against the skin of my stomach as his tongue drew soft liquid patterns across my hips and up to my waist, slowly over the ribs, and I shivered when he licked just under the curve of my breast.

Oh, that felt good. I grabbed the bed for leverage and moaned softly when his tongue moved between my breasts, then turned a little to make a leisurely trek up the side of my breast, his hair soft against my skin. I stifled a moan as he found a nipple and bit lightly before circling it with his tongue, tightening it almost painfully. Reaching for him, I ran my hands through his hair and my entire body tightened when he sucked hard.

"Mmmmm."

"Worth waking up for?"

I grinned and let my fingers slide over the back of his neck, scraping with my nails.

"Do better."

Slowly, he slid his tongue back down my breast, then up to the other nipple, catching it between his teeth. I sucked in a gasp and felt his erection pressed against me. Lifting my hips, I rubbed into him and he bit down in reaction.

"Oh God, yes," I heard myself mumble, and the hands on my waist slid up my back, lifting me into his lap. I looked down at him, seeing the arousal in his expression, in the smile he gave me before I kissed him, winding my arms around his neck and letting him lay me back down on the bed.

"You know we don't have time for this," Logan murmured against my skin, trailing his tongue over far too many nerves.

"It's just shopping with Jeannie, sugar." I sucked in a breath as he slid his fingers between my legs. "She'll understand."

"I'm sure she will." A slow stroke, dipping inside me and I arched into it, grabbing his hair and pulling his face up, meeting hot hazel eyes. "Do it."

One long, hard thrust, and stars danced in front of my eyes as his body covered mine, warm and solid and so safe. I tightened my arms around him as his mouth found mine. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I moved into him, feeling my breathing speed up, his mouth nipping at my throat, my face, my shoulders.

Slow, warm sex, and my orgasm was a delicious, honey-slow rush of feeling. Above me I felt him stiffen and the thrusting slowed, then stopped, and I let my fingers drift down his back, over sweat-slickened skin, smiling a little as he rolled off me, pulling me close. Smiling, I rested my head on his chest.

"Shopping, huh?"

I grinned against his skin and licked a little sweat away.

"Bigger bed, better coffee table--"

"Huh." Logan shifted against me. "Do I get a choice?"

"I'm looking now at your choices, and I'm thinking 'no' on this one." He chuckled softly. For a second, I thought about it. "Maybe get more clothes, since I'm sort of low. Maybe--"

"Maybe look around for another place to live."

I sucked in a shocked breath, but Logan was stroking my back, still talking.

"Maybe a little closer to the school--God knows, Scott's been on my ass about being this far away anyway."

I lifted myself on an elbow.

"You mean--for both of us?" Which in retrospect should have been obvious, but--but wow. Me and Logan. Picking out a new place to live. Like--people. Like people that are seriously together. Heh. Cool.

Logan tilted his head at me.

"No, just for the furniture. To look at. Shit, Marie, what do you think?"

Absolutely idiotic things, apparently, and I couldn't help the grin, slid back into his arms.

"Somewhere in Salem?"

"That'd be good," Logan answered thoughtfully. "You know--house, apartment, whatever you want. I'm not picky."

A house. I blinked, feeling my grin widen a little, and Logan's fingers rubbed gently into the middle of my back.

"I'll keep that in mind," I heard myself whisper, and Logan's lips brushed against mine, all promise. All wonderful, fabulous, amazing promise.

"You do that."

* * *

I loved shopping. No question.

Jean and I meandered through some of the better furniture stores in the city. If I was going to live here--and apparently, I was--I had to have better furnishings. My coat wrapped around me against the cool weather, I nodded agreeably as Jean discussed fabric samples and color coordination.

Picking up frappacchino at a small coffee shop, we wandered out onto the sidewalk, and I looked around the old buildings surrounding me, smiling a little as a warm breeze caught my hair. Jean tilted her head, giving me a glance.

"Does the emitter keep your hair that color?" I sipped my drink and nodded, then frowned a little at the flavor. "What?"

"I think you got my chocolate," I answered, and Jean took a taste, grimacing. Jean might love all things coffee, but for some reason, she'd never taken well to the concept of it flavored with anything but vanilla. With a grin, we exchanged cups, and Jean hefted the bag containing assorted catalogues and fabrics over her shoulder. "Anyway, yes." I pushed a strand back idly. "It's a look for me." I was beginning to like it, to be honest, though maybe a darker blonde would be better with my complexion.

"While we're in the city, we can have it done professionally, if you wish to. Perhaps also get the cut evened out a little." I blushed, caught the smile turning up Jean's mouth as she took another sip of coffee. "Cut it when you got here?"

I nodded. "Sort of a desperate measure." Catching a strand of golden blonde, I thought about getting rid of the emitter, the last trace of the hiding Rogue. That'd be nice--no matter how comfortable it was, I was always aware of it and how it could be damaged. "You know a good salon around here?"

"Wouldn't have mentioned it if I didn't." Sliding her arm through mine, she grinned and pulled me along the sidewalk. "Did you like anything we saw today?"

"The leather--"

"What a surprise. You and Logan and leather." She shook her head, a red curl covering her eyes briefly before she tossed her hair back. "We'll go back and have it sent over--do you remember how big the door is at the apartment, or do we need to measure first?"

I'd never thought of that and frowned a little.

"Pretty narrow."

"Hmm." She was thinking, probably trying to decide if TK would help. That would be new--telekinetic moving sounded like the best thing to happen to moving since the brown box. "We'll have to measure, I think, or Logan could widen the door a little." She slowed as we came to a more congested area and a bright yellow woman with three eyes smiled at us as we passed. "Or you could talk Logan into moving into a bigger apartment, maybe in Salem instead of here. Spring for a house."

"Logan said something about that," I replied, unable to stop the smile that threatened to make me look even dorkier than usual. Jean caught it and her grin back was breathtaking.

"Good." And she meant it. "Tell him how he can design his very own gym in it. Trust me, it'll work. Scott and I are remodeling the boathouse due to my comment on how nice a large jacuzzi bathtub would be. Amazing how quickly we got an architect to come over and take look around."

"It'd be nice. Something--for us both." I wondered what sort of house Logan had in mind. Gym would be good--nice large living room, maybe a den as well for just sitting around. Big kitchen, and I might even learn to cook. Maybe three bedrooms, in case....

I felt a flush suffuse my face and realized that this weird fuzziness of possible maternal feelings wasn't just related to my recent period or to Jean. Wow. So much had changed so fast--but then, now it was _possible_. Possible, beautifully possible, everything I'd ever been denied. Swinging one of the bags, I almost skipped, restraining myself with some effort.

"I have a few errands to run--did you want to get more clothes now or wait until we have more time?" Jean asked over her coffee.

I shrugged, glancing down briefly at her bag with a little smile of thought. She'd picked up two newborn outfits--both in light blue, of course, and I'd seen how her hands had lingered on the rattles and assorted infant-type merchandise. Trying very hard to not be too hopeful, but unable to help it. I didn't blame her. At this point, I was ready to offer surrogate mothering--the longing was so sharp in her that it broke through both our shields.

Pushing through another knot of people, we emerged onto a relatively clear area of sidewalk, and I glanced around briefly, training warring with the knowledge we were perfectly safe. As a rule, I didn't like crowds, and this was no exception. Jean didn't seem as disturbed, but then, she'd never had killer skin either, nor the eternally paranoid Logan wandering around inside her head. Taking a tighter hold on her arm, we continued our movement through the scattered crowds until Jean came to a sudden and complete stop.

The brown eyes went sharp and distant and I sucked in a breath as both our shields shuddered under--_something_.

"Jean?"

The brown eyes were very dark--instantly, my hand went below my jacket, touching the hilt of my gun. God, she was too comfortable in the city--zoning out like that in a crowd was never a good idea. Tightening my grip, I pulled her back against one of the buildings and scanned the people around me. Obvious mutants, non-obvious mutants, and--

"Jeannie," I whispered, and her fingers waved a little at me.

"The New York camp has been breached," she murmured. "The FoH compromised security--"

In other words, they were dead. Shit. I tried to figure out where the camp was located relative to us, where our car was--and _why_ the hell this wasn't already known by the X-Men. No matter how good you were, taking down an entire camp took time, and we'd only been gone from the Mansion for a few hours. Someone should know by now.

"Did you tell Scott?"

"Yes," she answered, then looked down at my grip on her arm. "Marie, you're bruising me. Don't worry--Scott is--"

The first rain of gunfire literally came out of nowhere, and I forced Jean under me onto the ground. Invulnerable skin, one, bullets zip. One grazed my shoulder and went the way of all bullets--to wit, not in me, and a second zipped by my head, knocking off the wall above me and splashing us with dust and bits of rock.

Around me were the screams of the other pedestrians, running and jumping about and generally being great targets for a machine gun. God, amateurs.

"Jean?" I whispered, and the second volley hit and continued. Definitely a machine gun, and more than one shooter. Sliding my hand beneath me, I felt for Jean's body. I didn't think she'd been hit. Shutting my eyes briefly, I used her shields as a link and pushed a thought into her mind.

_:::you okay?:::_

_:::not hit, don't worry so much. telling Scott now.:::_

Scott was going to go postal. Dear God. Glancing around quickly, I took in the area--the nearest store door was ten feet away to the left, over a distressingly large number of cowering people, and Jean was inches taller than me. No way I could risk her that far.

"Get up," she said, and pushed up against me.

"Have you lost your mind? I'm invulnerable, you're not. We're doing very well like this."

Another glance up--the shooter was on the far side of the street now but coming closer. I tried to narrow in on what he was carrying but couldn't quite recognize it other than the obvious. Large gun. Not good. The spill of dark red hair across one of my hands reminded me I was sitting on top of one of the most important and public X-Men in the world.

Shit, shit, shit. If he saw her, he'd know her, and I didn't have any illusions that Jean's TK was so good that she could stop a rain of bullets. Shit, I couldn't even be sure if my invulnerability would hold out long against multiple point blank shots. And as for flying, just call it duck season. If there was more than one--

"Jean--how far away is the camp? Do you think they're armed?"

"Yes," she answered briefly. "The FoH always makes sure to arm them. There's a weapons locker in the tower sublevel--if they compromised all security, they have all of those too."

"How many?" Please say ten or twelve.

"One thousand rifles, five hundred Glock, eight hundred gas bombs for camp control, and Logan's standard security package. Hell if I know what's in that."

I breathed out and made a mental note to ask Logan what he was thinking to keep that many weapons that close to the norms.

"Move, Marie." The command in her voice was clear, and years of conditioning took effect again. My body pulled reluctantly away as she pulled herself to her hands and knees, lifting her head. The tingle of power rushed through us both--her shields in my mind quivered at the energy she was calling on, and I remembered, with a shock like pain, that she wasn't the same Jean who needed anyone's protection.

The first shooter to come into her line of sight lost his gun, and it spun away on to the top one of the six story buildings on the other side of the road. Almost unerringly, his gaze found us in the crowd, and Jean pushed herself to her feet.

"Phoenix," he whispered--but he didn't sound particularly scared. I didn't like that at all and levered myself to my feet beside her, gun in my hand but hidden under my coat.

"Jean--"

  
People call it a lot of words, but I've always followed the Logan school of thought on strange, uncontrollable impulses that take over when thought and reason fail. It was instinct. Pure and simple. Somewhere around the time mankind crawled out of the ooze and made a nest in the caves nearby, we started losing it, but for some, it never dissipated completely. Every nerve in my body started screaming in concert, and I remembered the efficient way that Kitty and I had been attacked in that apartment. The threat wasn't in front of us or behind us this time, though--

I jerked my attention away from the shooter, knowing it was a bad idea, knowing that it could lead to my or Jean's death, knowing that the man standing on the asphalt street wasn't unarmed even if we'd taken his most powerful toy. He was a professional in every sense of the word--it was written all over him like blood, in his stance and in his coolness in the face of the single most powerful woman on the planet. You don't stand like that when faced with a telepath of Jean's caliber, not unless you were already sure of something else entirely.

I reacted without knowing why, throwing my entire weight into Jean, but it was a second too late--from her other side, a bullet shot out from a civilian who'd been cowering among the others, still on his knees, and it sank into her side like a cherry dropped into whipped cream. Blinking, her hand went down, grabbing her side, bright with blood, then she moaned a little and the gun jerked up into the air, falling into component pieces at our feet.

I wasn't so elegant. I shot him point blank and watched his skull explode, spraying blood and tissue over the sidewalk and other civilians, before pushing Jean behind me and looking around the semi-deserted street, the living bodies piled around us in eerie silence.

The fourth kill of my life, and probably not my last. Anyone here could be an enemy, anyone at all.

Jean was still on her feet, but I could feel her weakness, knew that she'd pass out soon from blood loss. "Jean?"

"Not fatal," she said. What she meant was, not fatal right this second. I scanned the huddled people, the shooter in the middle of the street who was still watching us, who hadn't been surprised at all to see us. To see Jean. Like this had been planned.

Like that attack on Kitty had been. Someone had been following us, the man who shot Jean, and they chose this day to take her down.

Very deliberately, I pointed my gun at him and pulled back the safety. Something was seriously wrong with someone who stood that still, begging to be shot. Pushing Jean more tightly between me and the wall, I tried to figure out my options, then simply made the shot.

He disappeared. Blinking, I stared wildly around the area, but nothing.

Mutant. Fuck.

"Jean--did you get inside his mind?"

Jean didn't answer for a minute, and I heard her cough softly. Please God, no blood. Please.

"Couldn't. Shielded" She coughed again, and I felt her body shudder against mine. She wasn't going to be able to stay on her feet much longer.

"Do you sense him anywhere?" Something held me in place. The huddled people, the missing man, the other shooters--where were they? What the hell was going on? Instinct was still screaming stuff about RUN, but I listened to my reason this time. And my reason was telling me that they were expecting us to make a run for it. Perhaps straight out into that oh so open and innocent-looking street.

"No," she said, and coughed again. Street was not the only option--there was the sky too. But that didn't seem like a good option either. Nor was taking my eyes off what was going on in front of me. Plan, plan, plan--where the hell was Scott, damn it?

"Someone sabotaged the Blackbird," Jean whispered in my ear.

"This was planned."

"So it would seem."

The eerily silent street was slowly coming back to life--people were cautiously getting up, looking around, beginning to scurry away. I kept my gun out, trying to figure out what to do.

"Jean? Do you sense anything hostile?"

"They're all shielded," Jean answered slowly. Her voice was getting fainter. "Marie, we can't go back to the car--there are minds there I can't read."

Mutants. Had to be. Humans could shield, but they had to be taught how. Rogue mutant telepath, the man who'd disappeared was a 'porter at the very least, and shit, shit, shit, my back itched so badly from the strain I wanted to rub against the wall. Oh, very clever, Marie. All kinds of a good idea.

"They want you," I said softly, and she didn't disagree. "This isn't--is this something that happens a lot or something? I mean--Jean, y'all never mentioned assassination before."

"No," she said, equally soft. "I think--" Another cough, and that had to decide me. Jean could bleed out here and now while I contemplated my toenails and that was just unacceptable.

Taking a breath, I put my arm around Jean and hefted her weight easily, hearing her soft gasp of shock.

"Are there any hostile presences on top of this building?" I asked.

"No--but we'll be in shooting range of any escapees who picked up rifles. As you said, this was planned. I think--"

"You have a better idea?" Please God, let her.

"Find a car, any car."

"We don't have time to hotwire--"

I felt rather than saw her smile.

"Privilege of being with a telekinetic, honey. Trust me, I'm an old hand at this. Get us to a car--"

"Anything for the woman who is going to save our asses." Pressing a hand against the stone, I tried to get a mental map of where we were. "Jean, breaking the wall. Can you--I don't know--make sure the shrapnel don't hit you?" God alone knew. I wasn't up to date on her powers these days.

"Just a--" I heard rather than saw Jean sink down onto the sidewalk, then her voice. "Go ahead."

Keeping my eye on the street, I kicked backward, feeling the stone begin to break. Old stone, New York buildings up to code, this wouldn't be easy. Another, and more crumbling, dust settling around us. Third time--

"Open. We can--crawl through."

I glanced down briefly, then took a step away.

"Get through, Jean." I could be the human shield for her--after all, what good was invulnerability if not to stop bullets from raining down on innocent shopping telepaths? From peripheral vision, I saw her begin to crawl through, then sucked in another breath, watching the street.

The bullet bounced off my leg, and I could only think that the marksman must have been distracted.

Pushing Jean through, I dived in behind her. She was a frail weight when I picked her up. Cradling her close, I ran down the deserted hall. This opened into an alley--death trap from hell--but--

"Does Scott know where we are?"

Jean's head lolled a little against my shoulder.

"Yeah," she whispered, and I breathed out a little.

"ETA?"

"Three minutes."

Fuck a car.

"They're getting us from here." Sinking down, I lay Jean against the wall, moving her hand to check the wound. "Jean--stay conscious. I have no clue what to do here."

"It's not--not bad." She coughed a little, taking a handful of her loose t-shirt and pushing it against the bullet hole. "Flesh wound. You--moved fast enough."

"Not nearly enough," I answered grimly, pushing her hair back from her face. Sweat was standing up clearly. "Not even close. Shit. _Shit_."

"They're almost here," she murmured, her eyes closing, shifting to find a better position. Carefully, I drew her down against my leg, covering her hand with mine over the wound. Blood bubbled bright and clean, but not much. Maybe she was right, not serious.

Maybe it would be okay.

Please God, let her be right.

* * *

"This isn't going to happen again."

Jean was asleep in the infirmary--another doctor I didn't recognize had checked her out and done whatever arcana doctors performed for bullet wounds. Logan had dragged me to the showers, checking me inch by inch for injury--I got the feeling he didn't have a huge amount of faith in my invulnerability. Redressed and feeling a little less paranoid, we'd returned to the situation room, where Scott was waiting, as close to Jean as the doctor would let him come.

Logan pulled me out a chair for me, and it was a close thing that he didn't bodily force me into it.

"Scott?" I pushed wet hair back from my face, trying to catch his expression. Not just anger, not just fear, but a stillness that was more frightening than either or both.

"I can't--" Scott stopped, closed fists pressed lightly onto the surface of the table. From the corner of my eye, I saw Bobby and St. John come in, Kitty a breath behind them. None of them looked too good right now, and I couldn't blame them. "Where's 'Ro?"

"Supervising the reorganization of the camp with Remy," Logan answered, sitting on the edge of the table and within easy reach of me should more random shooters appear. Logan was _not_ a happy camper--like Scott, tension was radiating off him like plutonium was sitting under his skin. As the others took seats, I realized that this wasn't just a check-up of Jean--official meeting here. "'Ro says she'll support whatever you choose, and I got Remy's vote. So, what's the idea, One-Eye?"

Scott tossed Logan a long look--strange still, to see that connection between them.

"Betsy contacted me a few hours ago--it seems there was an attack on her apartment as well." I caught my breath, saw the naked shock on Bobby's and Kitty's faces. "It was only luck that she wasn't there--several in her building were injured, including three norms that are currently being held at the New York Detention Facility." Scott took a breath. "This was planned--I can only suppose after the attack on Marie and Kitty at the Salem Complex, they've come to the conclusion that there will be no consequences for security breaches." Scott's eyes flickered over all of us. "After tomorrow, they won't have that surety anymore."

Kitty made a small sound, but I couldn't quite take my eyes off Scott. Cool, cool voice, relaxed in his chair, some of the tension beginning to bleed off. Ah. Classic Scott. He had an idea.

"The interrogation of the dissidents taken during the attack on Marie and Kitty was completed yesterday. They're going to be the teaching example." His eyes slid over all of us again, gauging our reactions. "Tomorrow, they'll be executed in Salem Complex. Publicly. I will not have these incursions continue, certainly not the targeting and assassination of mutants. We fought a war to stop this, and I refuse to allow it to happen again." Scott paused. "Any questions?"

And it was no surprise, at least to me, that there weren't any. Something like shell-shock, or maybe just a sort of vague understanding--Logan's hand touched mine on the table, and I closed my fingers around his as Scott's gaze settled on me. There were nods all around the table and vaguely, I heard Bobby begin to start working out the details, but--nothing.

It was a little shocking to look inside myself and find nothing to protest this. Jean was downstairs, injured, might possibly lose her baby--and God, if it would prevent this from happening again, prevent having to sit in that hallway with Jean in my lap, bleeding into my hands--God.

While the conversations continued around me, I wondered when I had changed.

* * *

Public executions were something that Logan's memories had given me random glimpses of--a Guatemalan camp where six traitors had been led before a tribunal before they faced a firing squad. I couldn't find the memories as easily now with Jean's shields, but I didn't want them either--the echoes were enough. Wrapped in my jacket against the cool wind, I stood with the others in the tower while we looked down at the large, open area that had been cleared and cleaned in expectation of this day.

Logan had warned me what would happen, and I watched him and Remy standing with Scott as the twenty-five norms were led outside. They didn't look too good--all had been imprisoned somewhere in the Mansion's sublevels for almost three days with Jean and Betsy sifting their minds inch by inch. Betsy compared it to peeling an onion--I wasn't sure if that was accurate, but the graphic that appeared in my mind was quite enough to assure me I didn't want to know any more. Ten of the prisoners were the ones who had been apprehended immediately. The other fifteen had been implicated after the telepathic interrogation.

The FoH was involved. Possibly, so was Hank, but Logan had been tight-lipped about whatever Jean had told him, and I found myself with two brand new security personnel assigned to me. I didn't know what that meant, except that both had been indoctrinated by Jean before they appeared beside me under Logan's orders.

Jean was worried that Hank had told someone, perhaps even Lensherr, who and what I was. Logan worried that the FoH would target me for that same reason. I worried that I would spend the rest of my life having two very large, quiet people watching me until I went insane. We were in different levels of worry.

"Marie?"

I turned, seeing Kitty coming up the stairs, and tried to smile. I hadn't expected her to come for this; simply being near the camp had been enough to stress her to breaking and she'd only been out of her room twice since the ambush the week before. Extending a hand, I waited as she hesitated, then she crossed over, small, cold fingers closing tightly on mine. Touch. Comfort. Something I could do now.

God, I'd never be able to pay back Jean for this, for the simple contact that meant so much.

"They just came out," I told her. "The director already read the order of execution. It's almost over." A group of camp sentries were lining up and getting ready to finish it up.

She nodded a little blankly, watching the norms being herded out to the remaining wall of a once almost-intact apartment building. I wasn't sure when it had been destroyed--I could have sworn that it'd been in pretty good condition the day Kitty and I had come to the camp, but I wasn't certain of that anymore. Brown-grey dust was puffing up around the bare feet of the norms as they were lined up against the wall. None looked interested in putting up much of a fight. They weren't even manacled.

"They were wiped," Kitty said softly, her voice toneless, and I blinked, looking at her. "I didn't think Jean did that anymore."

Looking back down into the dusty square, I readjusted my vision, and looked into the faces. My eyes caught in the blank, dark blue gaze of the only woman--not for the first time, I wished I knew her name. She was third from the left in the file. Quickly, I took in the other expressions. Equally blank.

"Wiped?"

Kitty shrugged.

"Sometimes--sometimes their minds break after too long under telepathic interrogation. They--just stop functioning." Kitty stepped closer to the window. "Sometimes, they come out of it, and sometimes they don't. I guess since they were being executed anyway, Betsy and Jean didn't have to be careful so they could recover."

Oh. Eww. Onion metaphor again. Didn't want to think too much about that. Shivering, I placed a hand on the windowsill and wondered if I could see John Andrews if I looked closely enough. All the norms looked the same in grey coveralls, with little differentiation between them. Only the woman showed up much.

"What happened to her daughter?" I asked, waving a hand toward her row. Kitty blinked, tearing her eyes away from the scene outside to look at me.

"Scott arranged something. She was chosen to be part of the Polaris Project for a reason, after all. Compatible genes. Probably gave her to a family in here to take care of until it's all over."

Oh. That seemed--a little cold.

"Then what?"

Kitty shrugged again.

"Scott's careful with the kids. He'll find her mutant parents to raise her. Lots of us were sterilized during the war--there's always couples who want children. She'll be very well taken care of when this all is over." Kitty smiled a little. "There's a theory about mutation that it comes from environment as much as genes. Maybe she'll be a explosives expert like her mother."

I looked at the frail woman again.

"Explosives expert?"

"She was a mechanical engineer and a very good FoH terrorist." Kitty's fingers tightened in mine. "I wonder why she volunteered for the gene tests, then. Most of the FoH would rather die than join us." She must have caught my expression. "I looked up her file a couple of days ago. She had a mutant cousin, so she qualified for the preliminary testing and passed. She would have probably survived the wave."

The delicate looking woman against the wall didn't seem capable of surviving a strong wind. I swallowed hard, gripping Kitty's fingers as the camp guards moved into position. Scott was saying something to Logan and I wished I could hear them--it seemed lonely up here.

I shouldn't have come. There was no reason on earth I needed to watch this, no matter how necessary it was to camp discipline. Most of the camp population was gathered around the edges of the square, and I knew that the cameras were already rolling, recording everything that happened here so it would never have to happen again.

"We shouldn't have come," I said softly.

"I'm glad I did--I need to know, Marie." Her other hand gripped the sill. "I need this time, to see them die. When--when Logan and I got out of the Miami camp with the others, there was the explosion--but I never saw the bodies. I never--I never knew if they were even there, or if they were out in the city, having a nice dinner, and escaped. Maybe one of them got away and is out there, and remembers what he did to me." Her voice choked. "During--during the war, I wasn't on the field. I didn't have those powers. This time--I need to know for sure." Kitty's face broke, and I saw tears leak out of her eyes. "I don't care if it makes me a bad person anymore. I just--I need to know."

Without even thinking, I turned, pulling her into a tight hug, and the slim arms went around me with desperate strength, digging into my back.

"You know their names, don't you?" I asked, and Kitty nodded against my chest. I was glad I didn't.

An unspoken signal from Scott, a movement of his hand, and the guns came up. I bit into my lip, feeling Kitty's head turn to watch as well. There was more voices down there--but the eerie silence seemed to swallow those voices, not magnify them. I'd watch this. They were dying because of me--the least I could do was see it happen.

The norms braced against the wall didn't even to be aware of what was happening. Maybe it was better that way too--how could Scott stand there and give those orders if they pled for mercy, screamed for their families? It had to be kinder this way, that they didn't know, not really. I stared at the two rows of them, and John Andrews' face was suddenly visible--blinking a little, looking around him as if he wasn't sure what was going on.

I remembered his voice telling me he would have let those boys rape me in the middle of the street and not given a good damn. I stared at him, watched his head turn toward the waiting guns, and the blue eyes widened a little in some sort of half-realization. He took a step from the line, and Scott brought up his hand in my peripheral vision.

The gunfire was deafening and I watched John Andrews crumple to the ground, grey-brown dirt clouding my view of his body. The grey coverall was splashed with blood as the other bodies followed, but I watched for him to move.

He didn't.

A second round of fire, then a third-- I wasn't even sure anyone was standing anymore, and Scott signaled a group to go forward, who went through the bodies with drawn guns, ready to finish if there were any left alive. Another shot rang out, but I couldn't move my gaze from John's body.

It was over. Kitty shuddered against me and I tasted blood in my mouth. Invulnerability had never covered wounds from my own teeth.

"I'm glad they're dead," she whispered, and I tried to deny it in my own head, but it wouldn't work, not anymore.

"I am, too," I answered.

Outside, they began to gather the bodies, and I watched until John was taken away. He would have killed me and Kitty without thought. I couldn't even bring myself to pity that he'd come out of it enough to know what was happening to him. He wouldn't have cared if I'd been the one on the other side of that gun.

I couldn't pretend to care that he died.

* * *

Logan went back to the school and I got rid of my guards by sheer dint of perseverance--Hank was supposed to come by today and I knew there was no way in hell he would bother stopping by if he saw the X-guards playing outside to see it happen. Taking a shower, I changed clothes and thought about what I was going to do.

Two days. Last trial tonight, and that had to mean something. Hank didn't believe the machine would work without me, but--but maybe he'd found a way around that. Though his description alone--I pulled my knees up to my chest and thought about it, reaching for the coffee I'd made as soon as I got home, and taking a long drink.

There had to be a way. Short of assassinating Erik and Polaris, I couldn't quite see a way out for anyone, and everything in me shuddered at the idea of killing them outright. No matter where or who I was, murder was just--inconceivable.

And so the machine would still run, and those people would die, and I wasn't sure I could live with that either. If I could be sure--absolutely sure, positively sure--they'd just be changed, then maybe. Maybe.

But death? I couldn't accept that. And God, please, never let me able to accept it. Even if they were norms, even if they were responsible for the hell that lived in the minds of Jean, of Kitty, of St. John--for Jubes and Xavier's deaths.

I wasn't that cold. Staring at my ungloved hands, I wondered what Hank would say, what he could think to do, why....

The knock on the door startled me from the vicious circle of unproductive thoughts and I sighed, crossing the room and opening the door. Hank, big and worried and a little pale, stood waiting, and I stepped back to let him in, shutting and locking the door behind him.

"Where's Logan?" he asked, frowning as I passed him to go back to the couch.

"With Scott--cleaning up after the executions." I shook my head slowly and picked up my coffee cup, glancing up to catch an unguarded expression on Hank's face. "You don't approve."

"It's murder, Rogue."

Rogue. Jarring to hear that still, and I took a drink of coffee to cover my reaction.

"It was--precautionary." I sighed, staring down at the cup as if it would suddenly answer all my unspoken questions. "I know--but they were going to kill us, Hank. It was fast. If this sort of thing became standard, it could be so much worse for the norms--what?"

The big brown eyes were fixed on me with naked shock. Frankly, I was rather surprised by the words trickling out of my mouth as well, and shut it with a snap, frowning to myself.

"You--were there?" His voice was stripped of expression. I nodded warily.

"I--they died because of me. I thought--"

Soft, choked laugh, and every hair on my body went stiff and straight as Hank dropped heavily into a nearby chair. The creak seemed to echo in the silent living room like an accusation.

_\--"If this sort of thing became standard...."-- _ It was a shock to realize I meant it. More of a shock than landing here had been, more than bedding Logan, more even than the realization that my death had changed so much.

"A lot of people have died for you, Rogue," Hank murmured, as if to himself. "So many people for that lie." The clear gaze was fixed on the far wall, and I tried not to shudder, tried not to remember everything that lie was. How true it was. "You watched. I thought--"

"Thought what?" Putting down my cup, I stared at Hank for a few long minutes. "What did you think? That I'd stop it? It was Scott's orders, Hank. I'm one mutant--and he had a reason. It wasn't just because--"

"Because they were humans that dared lay a hand on two mutant women?" Hank answered sharply. "No, I suppose it was clothed with pretty words and lofty thoughts, but young Lucas who attacked you was merely sent from the zone. Or did you see him out there?"

My mouth dropped open--I couldn't even begin to form a response to that one.

"That's different! Lucas was--"

"A mutant." Cold, more than simply angry. "That makes all the difference, doesn't it?"

"He wasn't trying to hold me hostage for--"

"No, he believed you were merely a human woman to assault. And you say it is different."

He was misinterpreting the entire thing, and the unjustness of it brought my back up.

"My life isn't a fucking poker chip!" I found my feet, almost knocking into the coffee table. "How--you think those norms should have just been patted on the head and told better luck next time they decide to attack us? _Kill_ us?"

"They shouldn't be trapped there in the first place! If they had held you and Kitty, they could have negotiated the others out--" Hank stopped short, but the words were sinking in between us, hard and cold and utterly unmistakable.

The silence stretched until I could hear the blood rush in my veins, hear the soft, uneven pressure of my breath in my throat.

It was like falling, like landing, like realizing that you've jumped worlds--everything condensed into perfect, clear realization of what I should have known. What Logan, what Johnny, what Jean said--but I hadn't figured it out.

"You knew."

Nothing. Hank stared back at me, unspeaking, undenying. Everything right there on the surface and I remembered. Hank was a believer.

"Rogue." Nothing else for an endless moment, and Hank studied me for that time, looking for something--God knew what. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find, and the brown eyes dropped to the floor. "I knew."

Slowly, I reached out, grabbing the arm of the couch, then took a step toward him. God knew what I'd do or why, but--he, Hank--he was a believer. A true believer, any sacrifice worth it, any evil accepted, any darkness allowed, if it served the cause. Like Magneto in his own way, and something in me seemed to shrivel.

"You helped plan it." A pulse began to beat steadily in my head and my hands shook as I straightened, taking another halting step toward him. "You knew about it, you helped--that whole illness thing was dreamed up by you? You wanted Jean. To negotiate with. You--instead, Jean was busy, so you got Kitty and me." Jean, who if they could overpower her, would have made such a fine hostage, though God knew, they hadn't been as prepared as they could have been. Control collars would have been good, but they had the guns, and all they would have had to do was shoot once.

I swallowed hard, trying to breathe through the shock of realization. True believer, willing to die for his cause or take anyone else down if it would serve. I bit into my lip, tasting blood.

"You bastard."

"There wasn't any choice, Rogue."

"There's always a choice!" Always. There's always another way, a better way, if you have patience, and Hank had--oh God, Hank had just-- "Who--someone at the school is helping you. Someone is--someone has got to be. Their timing was too good, someone must have saw us--someone must have known--" Because they'd expected one telepath, not two girls. They'd been ready for two people.

It was easy to figure out that part, easier than I wanted to believe, and I took a breath, hands clenched at my sides.

"That--that attack on Jean in New York--it was by mutants." I sucked in a breath. "You planned that, too. Without Jean to keep camp control, the Polaris Project could fall to pieces with norms making a break for it." I shuddered--it was assassination, pure and simple. That's what that had been, and it was only luck that had helped us get away. "You let them try to assassinated Jean!"

And his helper in it all, sitting at the school and playing X-Man, and God, I should have told Logan so long ago. If I had--God, if I had, this might never have happened.

"One life against the thousands that will die, Rogue." His voice softened, turning inward, as if seeing something entirely different from the room we both inhabited. "The machine will never work, and those people will die."

I wanted to kill him. My mind shifted, shields moving softly and precariously, and in a breath I could have him. Bare skin of his face against my hands, and I'd know every traitor, every plan, every thought he'd ever had. I'd know--

\--God, everything.

It would be so easy. So easy, so quick, let him fall down on the ground and die right here and now, one less enemy to deal with, one less traitor.

X-Men had the right of execution for treason. No trial and no jury, judge and executioner all at once, and I was an X-Man. I could do it.

My hands clenched into fists as I remembered what I'd said about myself, the one thing I wouldn't become. I wouldn't be a killer.

"Get out of the zone," I whispered, and the blue head came up sharply. "Get the fuck out of New York zone or I will turn you over to Scott before you have time to fuck us over any more."

Standing up, he stared at me with a painful look of utter disappointment, before he walked out. As the door shut behind him, I grabbed my coffee cup and went into the kitchen, taking a long, deep breath.

_\--Having fun?--_

I blinked, almost dropping the mug, and grabbed for the counter in shock at the pressure in my head. It was Logan, he was awake, and God, I'd never, ever felt him this angry. Ever.

_\--Logan?--_

Slowly, the pressure eased and he slipped back into the edges of my mind, warm and dark and God, so real he could have been in the room with me. He should have faded more by now, he should have been....

_\--Jeannie's shields are pretty good. You don't need the collar anymore, huh?--_

I shivered.

_\--Felt all that?--_ Angry, I grabbed the pot blindly and poured myself a cup of coffee, taking a long drink. Some people liked cream and sugar--I'd picked up Logan's preference for strong, black, for my first cup. _\--Jean thinks she can burn you out of my mind.--_

_\--Probably can. Wouldn't put it past her.--_ The slow boil of anger rushed over my skin and I grabbed the counter again, trying to keep my hold on reality. It was harder than I thought. I was seriously out of practice balancing the inner and outer worlds.

_\--You can't take me over anymore. She said....--_

_\--I don't want to. Never did. You know that.--_ The pressure eased back again--either he was controlling himself better than he ever had before or the shields were still holding pretty well. I could feel a light buzz on my skin and tried to rebuild like Jean taught me, tried to patch up the kinks. Had to be breakdown in the shields. Had to be.

_\--How's Hank, baby?--_

I closed my eyes tight, putting down the mug before I dropped it.

_\--He betrayed us--betrayed me.--_ God, in so many ways, and if anyone could understand, inner Logan would. Betrayal was anathema to him, always had been. _\--In that--in the camp, I could have been killed. Kitty too. He--he set that up, Logan!--_

_\--Noticed that.--_ A little edge of anger that was different, directed at Hank, but far less than I'd expected and that threw me hard. Logan had always been hyperprotective of me, and this almost afterthought of displeasure was nothing like I would have expected.

As if....

Curious, I pushed forward, trying to take his temper, and was pushed unceremoniously back into my body. Unbalanced, I stumbled back against the refrigerator, sliding down onto the cool tile floor. Opening my eyes in shock, I stared into the opposite wall.

_\--Logan!--_ I caught my breath, the heels of my hands growing cold on the floor. _\--What the hell is wrong with you?--_

Better question would be, how the fuck did you get through Jean's shields? I followed them in my mind, cool and seamless and there was nothing wrong with then, nothing seeping through except--except this Logan, here, and he shouldn't be, not ever again. I should be free.

_\--What the hell could be wrong, Rogue?--_

I felt the jerk, knew he'd just been distracting me, and was pulled inside my head. I grabbed for grounding in the outside world but was terribly out of practice, so out of practice because I'd had the collar, then Jean to handle all this for me.

Blinking, I was in the white-washed laboratory of Jean's shields, and Carol and Logan were staring at me. Ghostly behind them were the other personalities--the man I'd killed outside that lab only a week before, Erik Lensherr, Cody, Kitty, Scott, too many other brief touches to name. Thick with the ghosts that filled my head and my soul, that had given me my liking for blackberry pie and chocolate-covered almonds and horseback riding, cigars and whiskey and late nights in run-down bars, and told me how to kill and when not to.

Blinking, I felt the rush all around me and wondered how on earth they'd done this.

"You can't do this," I whispered. Carol looked back at me--green eyes, short blonde hair, Johnny's once upon a time protector and abuser, arms crossed over her chest. Like moral indignation could possibly suit her. Like it meant something. I realized I'd almost forgotten what she looked like alive. "You're nothing. Just pieces of me--I don't have to be--I don't have to be all of you anymore. I'll burn you all out."

"Lose the cigars and pie, the horseback riding, the taste of chocolate in Belgium during the Depression, the smell of a woman's perfume in August when you learned to dance. Rogue, we aren't the enemy. They're cutting you apart from the inside out. Don't you see what they're doing?" Carol took a step forward, but Logan's hand on her elbow stopped her.

They were saving me from--this. From the hell of revolving personalities, of being who and what I was. I'd be free, like I hadn't been since I'd become Rogue. I'd be Marie again. Just Marie.

"I'll be me again," I whispered.

"Who the hell is that?" Logan's anger was even stronger in here, and the deathly white of my mind vibrated with it. "Who the hell are you? You, the woman who just threatened to kill Hank because he wanted to save lives, lives _you_ as an X-Man said you'd protect? You, who absorbed and killed an FoH member in cold blood? You're willing to kill for them now--what the _fuck_ do you think you're doing? When the hell did you stop caring?"

I couldn't believe they didn't understand. They'd seen--they'd seen as much as I had.

"The norms will destroy us! Didn't you feel--when that FoH officer I absorbed, didn't you _see_ what he was going to do to us if norms got free? Kill us all, store us in labs again, torture us to find out how we work and what we can do--" I choked out the words. They didn't understand--they were too much a part of the other world. They didn't get the reality here, what the mutants here had to do just to survive. "There's no other way."

"And you believe that." Carol's voice was utterly flat. I whirled on her.

"You were Brotherhood, Carol. You said this was a damn good world for a mutant." We weren't persecuted, we didn't worry about being attacked just for being different. "This is the world you would have fought for, would have died for. What the _hell _is your problem?"

Slowly, the blonde head shook and I clenched my hands together as her smile turned sad.

"I don't know." She sounded honestly puzzled, and that froze me in place. Logan was watching her with a peculiar expression I couldn't even begin to interpret--though it might have been respect.

God, this was too surreal.

"I don't know," she repeated, and her voice dripped uncertainty. "Would you die for this, Marie?"

I blinked, staring back at her. I couldn't answer the question.

"Why are you calling me Marie? You never call me Marie."

"Because Rogue was an X-Man. And you're not Rogue anymore." She paused, throwing a glance to Logan, before the clear green eyes met mine. "Strange, isn't it, to know how thin the skin of morality really is, how far you can push the line? Fifteen years as a human being and seven years as Xavier's student, and it only took two weeks to make you Brotherhood. It took you two weeks to become a believer in Erik's dream, not Xavier's. Two weeks for you to kill without remorse, and two weeks to be a racist." She smiled wistfully. "Erik would be so proud."

I took a steadying breath. They'd never understand.

"I'm not a racist. I don't--it won't be like this always. Just for now. You don't understand." And they didn't, that was the hell of it. They didn't understand, and they never could.

"Just for now," Logan murmured mockingly. "Just for now, just for the next ten years, just until it's what you are and what you do and what you've become. Just until it's so grounded in the reality of this place that no one remembers there was another way."

  
"Things aren't what I thought--they aren't that simple, Logan."

Logan's head tilted and his eyes dropped to my bare throat. Suddenly, I wondered where the tags were.

"Rogue would have died before letting this happen," Logan said softly, meeting my eyes. I didn't know how to make him understand, why I had to do this. Straightening my spine, I forced my gaze steady. I wasn't his and never had been. "And I would have let her."

There was nothing I could say to that--nothing that could stop those words from burning into my heart, denying seven years of love and support, rejecting everything I had ever been to him. I'd once wondered, in an idle moment long before, what hold I had over Logan, what it was that bound us.

Now I knew what could break us.

"Let me go."

Logan's head tilted, giving me a long look. There was nothing in it. No warmth that was reserved just for me, no protective love and caring--there was nothing.

"I already have."

I opened my eyes on the blank kitchen walls, sprawled across the floor. My mug had rolled inches away, spilling black coffee across the clean tile and my fingers.

It was cold.

My mind was completely empty. Jean's shields were in place, just like before. As if nothing had happened.

Slowly, I levered myself up on one arm, shaking my head a little before pushing myself completely upright. The towels were under the sink--I fumbled the cabinet open and pulled one out, covering the coffee and cleaning it up completely. Grabbing the mug, I stood up and poured another cup, taking an absent sip before shock made me spit it out. The taste was unbearably bitter.

I stared into the mug. I'd always liked my coffee black.

* * *

It was his room, third to the left and the door opened easily beneath my touch. Johnny had barely turned around before I had him up against the wall, one bare hand wrapped around his throat. The cell phone he'd been holding clattered to the floor like an accusation.

The most damning thing was, he didn't even look surprised. I didn't have to wonder why, only wondered that he hadn't run. I kicked the phone out of reach and stared into the clear blue eyes.

  
"You fucking bastard."

The temptation to squeeze was almost irresistible--my fingers twitched with the need, the desire to just _do_ it, kill him, God, he'd risked all our lives, our--

God. Traitor all along, and I thought of what he'd told me about his support of Hank, why he was here. I hadn't gotten it, not really. Didn't understand everything he was betraying, everyone he was going to destroy.

Five seconds that seemed to last five years, and I let him slide down the wall. I hadn't killed Hank, though God knew I'd wanted to. Stepping back, I studied his face, and there was nothing there--nothing but the coolest acceptance.

"Kitty, Jean--you knew both times, didn't you? That attack, when you immolated the corpses--you did that to protect Hank. That's why it's standard now. They might have had--something to implicated Hank." Implicate Johnny. Should have known, guessed, when Logan told me so long ago, that Hank had given those orders to Johnny.

Should have fucking put it together.

Johnny didn't answer for a minute--nor did he touch his bruised throat. Just watched me with a wary, intense concentration that drove every nerve in my body into edgy action. I wanted to kill him, wanted him dead so badly it shook my hands, and I clenched them into fists at my side.

"You help them, don't you? The FoH, Hank, the mutant terrorists--you _help_ them."

"What do you want, Marie?" he asked slowly. Blue eyes stared into mine, nothing in them at all. Johnny could blank himself like no one I'd ever met.

"The truth. Kitty and Jean could have died. I could have died." Treason and murder in one beautiful package, and he'd betrayed us.

"Thirty thousand human beings will die. Slowly and painfully, while their bodies reject the mutation on the dirt of that camp." St. John stared at me, expressionless. "I know what happened to Senator Kelly, Marie, and the X-Men can hide the truth from the world, but that doesn't change the facts. I know how he died I was here. I _know_." He pushed by me, reaching for the duffel bag on the bed, not even attempting to hide what he was doing. A stack of clean shirts were dropped in without ceremony, then he retrieved the phone, flicking it off with a careless flick of his thumb.

The traitor was running. Hank had called and warned him, and if I'd been only a few minutes later, he would have been gone.

"That doesn't make what you did right--Kitty could have died." Jean could have died--could have lost the baby she wanted so desperately.

"Right and wrong went out of fashion around the time Magneto was allowed to dictate post-war policy," St. John answered coolly, not pausing in the steady packing. A framed picture disappeared into the recesses of the bag, and I saw his mutant ID laying on the bed beside it, proclaiming him the most elite of living mutants, a war veteran and an X-Man. "Feel free to get the fuck out. Hank got free passage out--I assume you're not turning me over to Jeannie for interrogation."

I shuddered at that thought, even now. _\--like an onion....--_

"Did--did you know what they were doing?"

St. John shook his head slowly as he dropped the phone into the bag.

"I didn't know for sure--I was just sending information, like I told you before." And how damnable, that I couldn't be sure he was telling the truth. The St. John I'd known never would have done this, ever, never betrayed a teammate. "I wouldn't have stopped Hank, if that's what you mean. If they'd held you--maybe we could have negotiated the humans out. Instead--" St. John shrugged, looking away. Bitterness was written into every line of his body. "Instead, they got desperate, tried to take out the telepaths. Jean and Betsy got damned lucky, you know. They figured that without the two strongest, the others would slip up and the camp would be free." Twist of a smile. "It's not easy to hold that many dissidents in one place, you know."

_We_ negotiated the humans out. Like he--like he was one of them.

"How can you betray your people?" I whispered. No X-Man would do that. "How can you turn on your own kind--"

"They _are_ my kind." Flare, bright hot and almost blinding, and I felt the heat from his skin even at three feet away. I'd never felt that from Johnny before, not in this world, not in the other. His back was to me, head down, and I felt him pull it under control with an effort that was entirely visible. "I was born of human parents, same as you. They're human, Rogue--human. They're not rats for us to exploit or experiment on--"

"But it's okay for them to do that to us?" I was breathing too fast, too hard, the pulse in my forehead a counterpoint to my anger. He'd--he'd turned on us, risked lives, given out information--and for _what_? To save the people that would watch us all die, who'd spent a war trying to kill us already. My God, how-- "How can you forget? Is it that easy for you? To see what happened to your friends and family and--and then turn on them? I _saw_ what was in their minds, Johnny, in that--in the FoH officer I absorbed. Don't you--don't you remember? What they did to you? What they did to everyone?"

Almost as if I was watching a slow-motion video, Johnny turned around, blue eyes darkened almost to black, fixing on me. For a moment, neither of us moved; _everything_ seemed to freeze in place. Then, sudden heat, a flare of pure power that made the air burn briefly around us and I winced, invulnerable though I was. St. John had never needed much fuel for his fires. This St. John didn't need any at all. The air was full of the smell of charring wood and my gaze slid downward, unwillingly drawn to the blackened floor beneath his feet, the brown crisp of the ceiling above his head.

"Nine months," St. John whispered, and he pushed me back against the bed with hands that burned through my jacket and shirt like fire. Falling, I caught myself on both arms, the heat radiating from him sinking into my bones. "They burned me out. I blew up the Mansion. I wanted to die."

I sucked in a breath of hot air, letting it out in a rush.

"Three months. Drug trials and experimentation, torture and filthy cells crowded underground where I never saw sunlight." His voice was low and breathless and utterly flat. "I watched hundreds destroyed and experimented on and burned out, left nothing but bodies they dissected at their leisure. They dragged me out and flew me here, and the Mansion went up in smoke because I couldn't even think, much less control my powers. At that point, I didn't even care." Quick breathing. "It took four point eight seconds to vaporize the school, topped myself out into unconsciousness on the floor of their plane and I woke up locked in a collar. They watched me go insane in their cage and took notes until Logan found me. Nine months, Marie. No one thinks I can remember it. I do. I _remember_. Every. Fucking. Minute."

I couldn't move, couldn't look away from the blue eyes drilling into mine.

"Two years, where I couldn't function, didn't know where I was or what was going on. Jean fed through me so they could use my powers on the field. Hank manipulated me into blowing up the things he wanted hidden. Eighteen months ago I was still recovering from collar shock in a small room in Canada, and they thought I'd never be able to function independently again. Twelve months ago, they thought I'd burn myself out because I didn't have any control." Brief pause. "I can control myself now. It's hard, it's hard to hold it, it's a battle every day when I can feel it rise up inside of me with nowhere to go.

"My parents died in Australia during the government-sponsored cleansing, Jubilee died in the camps under torture, Xavier was murdered in the middle of a filthy camp latrine, and Bobby--God, he lost his parents, his lover--everything. Jean lost her baby, Kurt lost his tail, and I lost three years of my life and part of my mind. Don't you dare presume to think you can judge me--I paid for being mutant as much as anyone else. I paid for being different, and for being who and what I am."

"You don't--" I choked off the words, looking for something--something concrete. "He--the FoH I killed--he's in my mind. Don't you--don't you know what they'd do to us, if they got out?"

"I know," St. John said softly, implacably. "They already did it once. I lived the experimentation camps, Marie. I survived them. But I never, ever made it an excuse for what I did after. There is no excuse for those people dying out there so Lensherr can play scientist and experimenter and God all at once. I would go through it again, all of it, rather than be a person that can accept that."

_"I would have died in the camps before letting myself become them."_

That's what I'd said. To Logan. My own words, and it was as if the days between were nothing at all to this--to this moment, this second, when everything fragmented.

"You've been here two weeks, and you've changed. You believe in Scott's revised dream and Logan's cynicism and Jean's bitterness. You believe in what they brought out of the camps and out of the war. They--they think this is temporary, but it's not, Marie. You set up society with a chosen slave population, that's how it's going to be until there's another war. Until we've internalized and justified this--this social structure, until it's all we know."

And I'd said that too.

"Scott isn't going to do that," I whispered, hands shaking in my lap. Standardization of a way of life--Scott didn't mean that to happen, I knew it in my bones, knew it from his memories I'd taken when I'd taken his power.

But Scott wasn't Magneto, wasn't every other mutant in this school, on this planet.

"He already did. He approved the Polaris Project--but then, what's a few thousand human beings up against the good of mutantkind, right?" Tiny pause, almost breathless. "Or one life against those, one quietly indoctrinated girl who believes she's going to save the world. Just. Like. Rogue."

I shut my eyes against the bitterness.

"And you came back, and now you believe too. You believe the bullshit, that this will make everything better, or fairer, or more just, that this can erase what we went through, that this'll be what heals us all in the end." Instantly, St. John had my face, tilting it up, staring into my eyes. Whatever he saw in them, however, made his hands drop away. "Nothing, nothing, can ever be done to make this up to me, do you understand that? Nothing can bring back Jubes or Xavier, give Bobby his lover, give Jean back her baby, give us back our lives. Every human on earth could die and it wouldn't be enough. Don't you get it? It's not about fair or about reparation or even liking or disliking or hate. I'll hate them, I'll hate humans, for as long as I live. I'll hate them and fear them, and somewhere in me _likes_ what I see every day, that humans are locked up where I know they will never hurt me again. I like their fear and I like knowing that they fear me and I hate myself for it, for being no better than they were to me."

"Then how--"

"Because they took everything else from me." St. John seemed to step back--not physically, not in the world. Something that was all in the eyes, the tilt of his chin, the space between us that seven very different years had created in him that I could never touch. He might not have been in this room at all. "They took St. John and left Pyro, they took my life and my family and my home and my world and left me in this--this godforsaken mutant dreamland where every day, I wake up knowing that my people--_my_ friends--are playing mutant supremacist and training everyone to believe it. I can't let--I can't let the humans have anything else. I didn't believe in Xavier's dream when I went into the camps, Marie. I wasn't ever a believer. I believe it now, because otherwise, that war was for nothing. We all suffered for _nothing_. Humans were right, we're not anything more than animals who deserve to be exterminated, because we know better, we saw the what we could become, we lived on the other side of the fence and we fucking became it anyway. _Nothing_ they could do to me, nothing, can make me want to become them."

  
_"I never stop making sure that what they are, the FoH, the Brotherhood, all of them, is what I don't become. It's a choice I make every day."_

God. This wasn't--

"St. John--" But I had no idea what to say, how to say it. If there was anything at all.

"You don't have the right to judge me, Marie--Rogue--whoever the hell you are and whoever the hell you've become. Not because you didn't live this and not because you weren't in the camps or because you didn't fight the war. Because you _chose_ this--because you saw everything that humans could do to us, you saw everything they _did_ to us, and you thought it was so fucking great that you decided to become that yourself. You made a choice, Marie. I understand Scott and Jean and Logan and Magneto--but nothing will ever make me understand, nothing you say will ever justify the fact that you support those camps, those restrictions, and those deaths."

"I don't. I don't--" Don't _what_ Marie? What the fuck don't you believe? You watched thirty people die for you and you've taken three lives with your own hands in this place. What the _hell_ do you believe?

We stared at each other for a few long minutes, my heart in my throat, pounding so hard I could barely think, barely breathe. Neither of us spoke, and the air cooled around us as St. John winced, bringing himself back under control, blue eyes turning downward as he shivered, suddenly shaking, rubbing sweaty palms into his thighs as if he was rubbing off something filthy.

Maybe my touch.

I stared down at my hands briefly before looking up, catching St. John's eyes.

"I sent Hank out of the zone," I whispered, and St. John didn't even twitch. "I sent him out. I told him if he came back, I'd have him arrested. The X-Men suspected him of collaboration with the enemy for a long time."

"I know."

Something twisted across his face, body straightening, and I reached out, pulling my hand back at the last second. The blue eyes were distant, dark, and I watched him separate us, distance growing with every breath--those words, that anger, had been for Marie, the girl he met, not the stranger who now sat on his bed.

"You'd--you'd die for those humans, wouldn't you?" I said slowly, picking my way across the confusion of my own thoughts. It was a question, maybe, but I knew the answer, easy. It was written into every line of his face, every movement of his body.

"Yes." Without hesitation. Without question. A true believer, what I'd thought I had always been until I came here and saw what the price of belief really was.

I'd never been a true believer in anything. Hard to say, to think, but there it was. I'd never believed this much. I'd been Xavier's invulnerable X-Man and then Scott's, I'd played on both sides of the fence and fought for a cause I thought I believed in--but I'd never personalized it. I'd thought--I'd thought I was better than this. That I was--that the cause meant something to me. I'd preached equal rights for mutant in the other world, but never risked myself to achieve it. I'd coasted along all my life, and this--this was the moment I had to acknowledge it. In the face of Johnny's belief, there wasn't a choice.

Everything I'd ever said, in this world and the other, had been a lie. I'd never believed enough in anything to die for it.

"I'm not a believer, Johnny." Somehow, it was easier to say than I'd thought.

He paused briefly, and I caught the quick dart of his eyes before his expression cooled again.

"They won't die," I heard myself say as St. John picked up his duffle bag. The words slipped into the space between us, hanging in the air with more meaning than I wanted to think about. As if from a distance, I heard Johnny's breath catch, the sense of the words penetrating. "Polaris won't die, Johnny."

Like falling, like flying, like knowing. It was--this was it.

"Marie?"

I looked up at him, blue eyes, shining with the faith I'd never had. I wanted to be him.

"I can change things," I said slowly, feeling it come together. "I can--Johnny, I can change everything."

I heard the duffel bag drop unceremoniously to the floor--and maybe he felt it too, whatever was moving inside of me, awakened for the first time in my life. What I was and what I could be, if I tried.

If I just--believed. Just this once.

"Tell me."

* * *

The day outside was gorgeous. I could see what seemed like forever from Johnny's window. Hearing his quiet footsteps as he left, I wondered a little on the fact that the sun looked just about the same today as it had the day Logan had brought me to the Mansion, about ten million memories ago.

Slowly, I retreated to the neatly-made bed, dropping onto the mattress and drawing my legs up to my chest, shutting my eyes. Going to Logan or Scott with this would be pointless--I knew the first arguments would wear down what I'd decided. I had to do it, had to make the commitment, and this time, I had to do it alone. No inner voice committee meetings, no advice from friends, just--just me.

And for the life of me, I hadn't had to do that in forever. Not since that first touch with David so long ago, not since Logan, Magneto and the Statue, and Carol. This was just--Marie.

And for some reason, I'd wanted this silence of the mind for so long. Ironically, I'd never wanted my voices more than at this moment. The white-washed halls of my mind were echoingly silent, only my thoughts, small and insignificant wandering through.

I rolled on my back and stared up at the ceiling. Closing my eyes and reaching inside, looking--but there was nothing. Logan and Carol gone as if they'd never been there at all, and the others--ghosts of feeling, like a thousand tastes in quick succession, nothing I could cling to, no one to ask, no one to tell me what was right and wrong.

I'd depended on my inner voices far too much. To help me clarify my own lines, to make my decisions easier, to always have the back-up of them telling me when I fucked up and how. Most people didn't have that, and most people--most people didn't need that. They were strong all on their own.

And Logan said I depended too much on my strength. I'd never realized until this moment how much he, how much Carol, were that strength.

So what was it, exactly? Rogue, Marie, the girl who refused to die for Magneto or the one who was going to save Polaris? Make a fucking decision, Marie. Or--just acknowledge the one you made. Just do it, for God's sake.

I shut my eyes and remembered the numbers on the boy's arm, remembered the blue eyed girl playing outside, remembered the way I'd felt the first time I'd seen the concentration camp--call it what it was, not an internment camp, a concentration camp--high chain link, electric current, and razor wire coiled above, silvery and deadly. Remembered a time and a place where I'd been the child behind the wire and stared out, when I'd been a immortal soldier and stared in.

Getting up unsteadily, I opened my eyes and stared at the far wall, rubbing my sweaty hands over the legs of my jeans as I walked out the door. The corridor was endlessly long and my boots were so loud, and for the first time in what seemed like fucking _years_, I _saw_ the slim blonde girl whose name I'd forgotten, arms piled with towels, green eyes cast down as she hurried by me and the blue numbers etched into her skin in sharp relief like an accusation of what I was letting happen. Her death, perhaps, if she was one of the ones slated for experimentation. So many others. More than I could name.

Sarah. That was her name.

I stumbled into the wall and shuddered a little, the paneled wood cool and grounding against the bare skin of my hands.

Eric Lensherr was in his office and I pushed my hair back, briefly regretting the blonde, before opening the door and walking in. He rose, frowning a question, but I took the steps separating us and closed my bare hand on his uncovered wrist.

  
Jean's walls dissolved with a breath and his eyes widened in startlement as he felt the draw--shock and disbelief and horror and anger and laced through it all, sheer intoxicating _realization_, of what I was. Who I was.

The memories were a rush of blind color and sound and images almost too quick to identify. Xavier, dead at my feet and in my arms, my own face plastered across a thousand countries and a thousand ways, drawn from pencil and on the wall of a camp I'd seen only in Kitty's memories and I knew, _knew_, who had created this legend. The legend that had built a lie and won a war and people--people had died for without question. Because a seventeen year old girl was willing, they should be, right?

I jerked from Magneto as if he burned. It was too familiar.

When Erik looked at me, it was in his eyes, all of it, and I reached out with my other hand and the metal lamp at the edge of the desk tossed itself into my palm effortlessly.

I remembered this feeling and so did he.

Stepping back, I put down the lamp and held his eyes, washing his memories behind Jean's shields as I raised them again, feeling them ripple with the addition and the strength it took to re-erect what she'd created inside me. Bracing a hand on the desk, I got my balance and looked up into faded blue eyes that blazed with triumph, with hope.

It made me sick and high and scared at the same time, like freefall without a parachute--it would hurt when I hit, and I would land hard, but even knowing that wasn't enough to dissolve the determination created in that moment in Johnny's room.

"My name is Rogue."

* * *

Scott didn't move for a full minute after Magneto left his office, standing with perfect, military-precise posture by the door. Very Scott, obeying the chain of command even now, never let the subordinates see the leaders dispute.

Visored gaze fixed just above my head, and I knew he was talking to Jean.

The meeting had been short, brief, and to the point. It would happen tonight, and I had six hours to live. If I listened, I could hear voices in the hallway, people yelling questions as Magneto prepared, and I hoped to God Logan hadn't suddenly decided to come back to campus.

The flick of power turned off was almost audible, and his visor was on me, intense and blindingly red.

"What are you doing, Marie?"

I swallowed in a dry throat, running sweaty palms against my thighs and drawing in a long, deep breath.

"I have to."

Scott's hand snapped toward the door, fist closed, but he paused instead, resting his knuckles against the dark wood.

"We have to get you out, Marie." His voice was firm. Leader voice. "I'll call Logan--I can get you both on the Blackbird and into--"

"No." Standing up, I reached out, remembering at the last second that I'd just dropped Jean's shields and human contact was chancy stuff until I'd had time to meditate a little and rebuild completely. Crossing my arms over my chest, I leaned into the desk and looked for the right words. "I have to do this."

"Die?" His voice was harsh. "For what? Marie--"

I looked inside for something--anything--to tell him, something that would make sense of the uncomfortable cloud of swirling thought that made up all my useful brain function right now. Some words to bring it into focus again, make it something more than just impulse and guilt and--and _what_ exactly? I could be on the Blackbird and gone--Logan and I could build a new life, and what were those damned lives to me anyway?

Rogue, of course, never would have needed to ask that question. Then again, Rogue hadn't been too hot to go in that machine either, and the uncomfortable mix of impulses and beliefs and reality were just enough to keep me silent.

But if he kept talking--I'd break. I didn't want to die any more than any other sane person on earth.

"When I got here, all I could think was that you'd betrayed Xavier."

My words hit him like a short gust of wind to the face--reeling but not falling, expressed in the tight lines that curled around his mouth and chin, hand flattening against the door.

"This--this isn't what Xavier wanted, Scott. Not--not ever. I know, Scott. Before I was here, I was Rogue, in his school--he trained me for seven years, took me in when no one else would or could."

There was a presence in the room with us now--the memory of a ghost, perhaps, or the memory of someone we'd both loved and, in our different ways, lost. Xavier might be dead, but Scott was his protege, his son in all but blood. His heir to the dream that was this now, and I thought I had the reason--or _a_ reason, anyway.

"You--I've learned since then. I've killed for you three times as Marie Danvers. I watched you execute thirty people for mutantkind's existence, and I--I agreed. If it's any consolation, at least you have a reason for changing, for making this world. I don't. I just got used to it."

Got used to it. Jesus. What had I been all my life anyway?

"Then why?"

I sucked in a breath, locking my hands into the edges of the desk.

"I've never been a believer."

Scott frowned, more questions gathering, but I put up one hand shakily. I could do this.

"When Magneto put me in that machine seven years ago, I didn't want to die. I was a kid. I didn't know whether the machine would work or not, and I didn't care. I wouldn't have cared if the damn thing was going to bring eternal world peace and an end to hunger--it _didn't_ matter to me, because I didn't want to die. It was young and understandable and selfish, and it was me."

His nod was slow, almost painfully precise, and I shifted my weight and looked down at the floor.

"When I got here, I didn't want to go into it because I didn't want to die. And I can put it in a lot of pretty words about free will and the wrongness of what you're all doing and crap like that, but that was the basic idea. I'd been there, done that, and I didn't want to be in it again. Not for mutantkind, not for humankind, not for anyone. I wouldn't get into it because I didn't want to die. Still selfish."

Scott opened his mouth to speak, but I raised a hand, hoping to God he'd pay attention--just this time. Just this minute. Just for this.

"A day ago, I didn't want to go into it because I didn't really care whether humans died because of it. Because I stopped caring. Because I was mutant, they were norm, and if I was willing to watch thirty people shot down for wanting to escape being forced to become mutants, then I was certainly willing to watch few thousand people die because I knew the machine would never, ever work. Polaris too, as long as I didn't get in that machine myself, and what does that make me, exactly? You, Jeannie, Logan, Johnny, even Hank--you're all willing to die for what you believe in. You believe in this world, and if you thought it would work, Scott, you'd get in that thing yourself. I'm--I'm not a believer anywhere--I never have been."

God, that hurt. More than Logan or Carol's defection, more than even Johnny--sharp and sudden and painful. And the truest thing I'd ever said.

"And that's a reason?"

"No," I answered, my voice sharp, and I could hear my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears. I wished I could tell him about my talk with Johnny, now safely away, the sound of his voice filled with my words, the beliefs I'd played at having. All hollow, all meaningless, because this was the truth. I was selfish, and a coward, and I'd been trying my damndest to get away and let everyone else deal with it. "I--can't let Polaris die for me, Scott. I can't--I can't let those people die for me. Just because I'm scared, just because I can't face this." It was like a breath of cold air between us, and Scott slowly leaned against the wall. This was it, the choice I'd made, and I almost smiled. It was easy. "I won't be that kind of person, Scott."

There.

"You believe." It wasn't a question asking for clarification--and just maybe, Scott had had one of these moments too, maybe in the camp, maybe before. When the decision had to be made, and when it was, the person who came out on the other side wasn't the same as the person who walked in.

"Yes," I whispered slowly, staring up into his eyes, reading all the pain, the understanding in them. "I'm a believer now."

His hand touched my hair, light as air, and I leaned into it without thought.

"I understand."


	10. The Martyr

_ **Present Time** _

Scott felt Jean's touch, light and gentle on the edges of his mind.

_—He's unconscious.—_

Logan—Scott pushed the thoughts out of his mind, feeling Jean's retreat as well. Instinctively understanding his need for space right now in his own thoughts. Not quite up to acknowledging what he was going to do, not yet.

It'd been enough when Logan had sensed it in Jean—he'd felt the shockwave wash through their connection, pitying Ororo who was still in New York and being less competent with shields. Logan, going toward Rogue, blank horror a rush that Scott in the car hadn't been able to block, sensing it all through Jean and Logan at the same time—

—and mercifully brief, merciful maybe for Logan, too, and Rogue had come back down the stairs only minutes later, gloves clasped in one steady hand.

"About two hours," she said briefly as she got in the car, eyes very old and very distant. Rubbing her temples lightly with the tips of her fingers. "At least, that should be about right. Jeannie's staying so he has—someone here. I—it should be over before he wakes up. You'll come back—" she sent him a sideways glance and Scott nodded tightly.

Logan. God.

Closing his fingers over the steering wheel, Scott pulled out of the apartment building's parking lot, forcing himself to stop casting surreptitious glances at her as she leaned her head against the window. Eyes closed and breathing deeply, hands clenched over the leather in her lap. Pushing her hair back with one hand, he saw the dull line of metal around her throat, but the turn-off back to Salem was coming up too fast for him to wonder what it was.

"Is it up?" Marie asked softly—slight drawl he hadn't heard before. Scott swallowed hard and concentrated on the road.

"Yeah. He—didn't have time to move it to Salem, so we're doing it from the school. The range is longer than the original, so it should reach New York without much—many problems." He was beginning to babble and that was just—surreal. This entire conversation was surreal, though. "Marie—"

"Where is he setting up?" she asked. "On the roof? I know the first trial was performed from up there, to check the range and power levels. I saw the scaffolding."

"Yes." Easier just to answer questions, let reflex take him. "Polaris—"

"I'm not charging with Polaris," Rogue said, and Scott blinked, tossing her a sideways glance. Nothing readable there, and it reminded him of his first view of her in the dining room only—what, a week or two ago? He remembered how young she'd looked, but now—that was gone. As if something had stripped her down to essentials—pure, clear line of her profile, tight lips, and the dark eyes that seemed unable to quite fix on anything. He could hear the chafe of flesh on leather from the gloves on her lap. "We're sticking to the original formula. Magneto goes up there with me." Her mouth curved up, glancing at Scott. Almost a smile at any other time. "Johnny was right, you know. Erik would have sold his soul to get the original absorber. The count is close to one hundred thousand bodies between Salem and New York with all the imports you've been doing. I suppose he didn't want to take the chance of something going wrong."

That explained the speed, at least. He wouldn't want Raven or any of the other hardliners, to figure out what he was going to do. It was dangerous—even if he'd survived the first two times. Too dangerous. They needed Erik too badly.

"I'll be up there, too," Scott said, and he caught an unguarded expression chase its way across Marie's face. Eyes going very wide and very dark, pupil swallowing the iris, and her mouth opened briefly. Then a little frown, before she looked away. "You're not—you're not going to have to go up there alone."

Her head turned, eyes flickering to her lap, and Scott could almost see the leather stretch, before her hands relaxed and he got his eyes back to the road.

"Scott, can I ask you something?"

Swallowing, Scott nodded.

"All—the pictures you used. During the war. Logan drew them, didn't he?" A quick glance told him nothing—the fall of hair obscured her face. Scott wondered what she wanted to hear but—. No. Truth this time. God knew, they all owed her that.

"Yes. Erik—found them first. He used them to intensify European sympathy for the war in countries where mutants weren't being—persecuted."

"They were useful?" There was an unspoken intensity behind her question that Scott couldn't quite identify. Taking a breath, Scott thought carefully.

"We needed a symbol. We didn't have one. When Logan and I found out—during recruitment, actually, we found the first of them." Scott struggled a little, looking for words—but this wasn't a mutant rally or a speech or anything he could use his usual skills. Just a conversation, beside the girl whose memory they had exploited. Taking another breath, he evened out his thoughts. "You became a symbol, Marie. It was important—more important than even we knew until it was almost over. When people—when they understood what you were willing to die for—" But he cut it off, teeth locking together. She hadn't been willing.

"Scott." Her fingers brushed his thigh, quick and light, as if she was afraid of leaving fingerprints on his jeans. "No. This—believe it or not, I understand why you did it. I even—I have to say, it's good THAT you did." Amusement and something else he couldn't define. "I remember—I have some of the memories—yours and Kitty's and Logan's." Her head tilted just a little. "I understand how you needed the symbol and why. When—Jeannie told me little girls these days learn the story of Rogue just like George Washington. That true?"

Scott smiled a little.

"Required material in class, Marie."

"Yeah." Marie's eyes grew distant again. "We—never had that. A single symbol, in the other world." Her face grew pensive and Scott wondered what she was thinking. "We had the dream, you know—but never a united vision like that, to pull all mutantkind together. We had Erik's interpretation and Xavier's interpretation, and well, some others that I wish I had time to tell you about."

Scott nodded mutely.

"And I—I never thought how important that was, you know? To have that, not until here when I got to see it. It's a powerful thing, a symbol, to pull people together like that." Marie stopped and Scott shot her a quick glance, but her face was only thoughtful. "What I'll do today—it'll be there too, won't it? In the stories?"

Yes. It would. Scott wondered if she wanted to hear that. "Yes. It will."

She nodded, as if she expected that.

"Start it with 'once upon a time' maybe," she said with a grin that lit up her face, and Scott blinked, fixing his gaze on the road again. "Don't, Scott—gallows humor. I get this way. Picked it up from Logan once upon a time myself. It's just—it's a weird feeling. To know that I can change things so much. I hated my powers—I still do, I suppose. Until Jean helped, I couldn't control them, but now—now that I can, it doesn't seem much better. What earthly use is absorbing anyway? Just a taker, as far as I can tell, a glorified thief. Sort of a joke I made once—probably only funny to me—that when someone said they wanted _*everything*_, I was the first person that could actually _*have*_ everything I wanted. Just with this." She lifted one slim hand, wiggling her bare fingers in the air. "I—turn-off to Westchester, Scott."

Scott pulled in, and Marie settled back in her seat. Hair covering her face and he wondered what she was thinking.

And he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

* * *

Everyone was gathering to watch—the wave didn't affect mutants, so while the school had been evacuated, most were outside to watch, and Marie had turned off the projector, so thick dark hair instead of blonde was visible.

The stares were—uncomfortable. People moving out of the way of the car as Scott parked it in the stone of the driveway, and Marie got out, pushing back her hair and looking around her as if she'd never seen the school before.

God, so young. Seventeen had been young—carrying her body down from the Statue that long-ago day. This, though—

"Scott." Someone was breaking through the crowd, and Scott raised a hand to block a little of the sun. Bobby, running full-tilt across the yard, hair a mess and shirt half-unbuttoned, barely glancing at Marie. Which in itself was a warning, and Scott took a few steps before Bobby came to a skidding stop.

"Johnny's gone," Bobby said breathlessly, and Scott frowned.

"What do you mean—we evacuated—"

"No—his stuff, all gone. He—he cleaned out our room. I don't know—Scott-" Bobby stopped, breathless, and Scott felt the first trickles of genuine alarm. "He was in the sublevels—I went down to check and the—his codes were last. He—Scott, I think he left. For good."

Scott froze for a second, thinking of the computers, the information downstairs.

"Did he—"

Bobby was quick.

"I think he accessed the mainframe, but I don't know what he did. I mean, Kitty's protections, I don't think he could have done anything, and anything he could do, Kitty could fix, you know? But—" Bobby was blanched so pale Scott reached out, meaning to steady him. "Scott, he didn't—I mean—"

"No. There's nothing he could have gotten that would hurt us, Bobby. His access isn't that high. And—I don't think—" No, that wasn't true. Scott did think—he'd been somewhat aware of St. John's disaffection for awhile, but—. There hadn't been time for that and everything else. He should have made time. "We'll—we'll handle it after. Where's Kitty?"

"Gone to see if she can trace him," Bobby answered. His eyes flickered to Marie and stayed there briefly, but not long. Too caught up in the moment. "I'm going to New York—Hank was in the zone, and I think—I mean, I—I need to find him, Scott. Talk to him. I don't want—" Bobby stopped, taking a breath, slim body almost shaking. "I need to find him, Scott."

"Go ahead. Take my car." Scott gave him the keys and Bobby ducked by him, already reaching for the door. A glance down showed a fine line of frost on the bricks, melting beneath the dying sun, and he sighed a little, wondering what condition his car would be in when he got it back. Probably nothing useful. Turning, he caught sight of Marie, hand on Bobby's door and leaning close.

He couldn't hear what they said, but Marie nodded and straightened, and Bobby jerked the door closed and pulled out, rushing toward the gate in his usual breakneck speed. No, he wouldn't get the car back in any condition to be driven.

"Ready?" she asked, and then walked by him. The crowd parted like water for her—students, teachers, everyone. Silence like something living—and it hit Scott all over again, the power of a legend. The power _*she*_ had, right this moment, the power they'd given her with the lie. They watched her like a religious experience in progress and Scott swallowed hard. "Oh." She came to a stop, and Scott saw two uniformed bodies at the door of the school. "Um, Scott? I think—looks like Raven made it after all."

Who the _*hell*_ had told her about this? Scott moved up—they recognized him on sight and nodded, but their gazes fixed on Marie in something close to awe. He couldn't quite blame them. As they stepped aside, Marie's head tilted a little, and he saw something like a smile turn up her mouth. Disappearing almost instantly when she saw his gaze, and she shrugged.

"Hey, President Kelley decided to watch too. Nice to know. I'm going to miss hearing these stories, Scott. I never—you know, I wish I'd read the ones the little kids got about me, the original one." She shrugged as she opened the door, walking inside the silent building. Ghostly, almost, and Scott shivered a little. "Sort of seemed morbid, but now—I wish I'd heard it." As she placed a hand on the banister, there was another flickering gaze, fixed on him with an intensity that seemed to reach beneath his face and go searching through his mind.

Another little smile, and she took the steps two at a time. Scott forced himself to follow.

"I'm—you know, Johnny. Don't be too hard on him." He couldn't see her face now, two steps in front of him, and Scott worked a little to catch up with her on the landing. "He's—he's a believer, Scott."

"You think he changed sides, too?" Hard to think, that Johnny—. Damn. Later. Much later.

"Maybe," she answered softly. "What's the penalty for that?"

"There's not one," Scott answered, still trying to process—well, everything. Too much to deal with right now. "It's—he's suffered enough. If—he can't stay in this zone, of course, but—he can go somewhere else. Join one of the human-rights groups. He'd be a good leader for them, too, being a camp survivor."

"Yeah," Marie answered. "He would be, wouldn't he? He—told me. About it, a little." Scott blinked in shock, but Marie was still talking. "About how he blew the school. What he went through. Hank didn't go through camp trauma, so he's not quite as influential. And his FoH alliances probably piss off other mutants, but Johnny—he'll do it better, I think." Marie shot Scott a sideways glance as they came to the top of the stairs. "I was thinking about—about that."

"About Johnny?" Why—

"Just in general. You're a good leader—you got everyone through the war. Did you always think it would be this way?"

Scott thought of the camps that had once made him sick—still did, in some part of him that Xavier still lived in, quiet voice and inescapable presence.

"I don't know."

"Would you have fought for this? Those—those years of the war, when you were fighting—was this what you saw? What you envisioned for the future?"

Scott paused and Marie did too, studying him now with an intense look of concentration, and he wondered what it meant. But—

—was this what he wanted? If he'd had the power at the end, or the necessary numbers, or God, just a little less need for revenge that was still running through him hot and fast back then, still living his own memories, Jean's, Ororo's, Logan's. Still the blank horror of Palm Beach and the bodies he'd help bury, the smells of the lab and the nightmare they'd found on the lower levels—almost mundane compared to the neat, insanely clean files on the computers he'd read for hours because he couldn't make himself stop.

It was a hard question, and he'd asked himself that so many times before, but now—

"No," he said slowly, and Marie's head tilted. "I wouldn't have—no."

Marie nodded slowly, some strange tension leaking away, and she turned down the hall, toward the last set of stairs that went to the roof. As Scott caught up to her, he saw her hands were twisting the leather again.

"You—after this, everything changes? The camps, everything—you'll stop it? All of it?"

Scott stared at her for a long moment—the feeling from her he couldn't quite identify, something that skimmed fear and hope and anger and resignation, but over it all... Over it all, something else entirely. He would have called it excitement, but....

"Yes." Easy promise to make, and he thought of her in Erik's office, the faith he had no idea where she'd picked up. "Marie?"

She looked up, mild eyes and serene face, like every statue they'd created of her, and something like nausea rolled in Scott's stomach. He could still stop this—or could try, anyway. Probably couldn't win, not with Erik's people and God, Raven's people here. The last stairs were so close and she stopped at the bottom.

"Are you sure?"

Her head tilted briefly, then she nodded thoughtfully.

"I've been sure for longer than I thought, Scott. Go back downstairs now."

Freezing on the first step, he looked at her. Intense concentration on her face.

"Marie—"

"Go back downstairs. Move everyone back." Flickering her gloves up, he saw the watch in her palm, and she glanced down at it. Gently, she pressed it into his hand and stepped back. "Thirty feet should be enough. I set this earlier. You have enough time."

She took the stairs two at a time, and Scott grabbed the banister, coming up behind her.

"What?"

She turned, and the grin on her face hurt to see. Serenity, yes, and grief and anger, and so much more.

"I wanted to do this a little differently, but you sort of changed things a little. So. Do what I said. Go back downstairs. Get everyone back. I don't know how much he can control in fallout, so better safe than sorry."

What—

"Marie—" Too damned much was happening, Scott couldn't focus on anything. The watch was body-warm in his hand, ticking obscenely loud in the quiet, and Marie was watching him with a little smile that seemed light years from anything he'd ever have expected to see.

"This is the only choice I can give you. You can figure out what the hell I'm talking about or you can live and can keep your word. That's it, Scott. You have about three minutes. Go." Little, quick flash of—God, joy. Utter, unmistakable joy, maybe realization, maybe understanding or all of it together. "By the way—this time, get the details right, when they tell the story? This one's gonna be different."

And she turned, trotting up the stairs, and Scott looked down. Old fashioned pocket watch, and someone had drawn a dot in red marker on the surface.

Three minutes.

Slowly, he turned around.

"Fallout." Moving faster, toward the stairs, then down and outside before he was quite aware of what he was doing, shouting orders that they instinctively obeyed, years of indoctrination paying off. Scott circled the building and watched as Marie walked to the posts, and she looked down, seeing him.

And he couldn't possibly see her smile.

It was like watching slow-motion on a television, nothing he could change. Erik was moving toward her and both hand went out, touching him—and Scott froze when Erik did—

_*"What I'll do today—it'll be there too, won't it? In the stories?"*_

"Marie," he said slowly, and felt it—Jean in his mind now, sudden and sharp, maybe his shields were weakening.

_—Scott, what's wrong?—_

_—Can you feel Johnny?—_ he asked, watching the hold continue, longer than he would have expected. —_Jean—_

_—Not at this range to Westchester.—_ She sounded tired, impatient, still recovering from her wound, he remembered, and it bothered him a little, because he was missing something. —_What's going on? You're....—_

Erik hit the platform with a sound that Scott was too far away to hear—but Marie was already on the posts, the machine moving. Raven was taking a step toward Erik, and Marie was—

—looking at him again, before her eyes closed, head back, and he looked down at the watch.

Instinct took him backward—moving faster than he'd known he could move, the ground seeming to shift underneath him, and he could still see Raven, kneeling beside Erik's body, coming to her feet suddenly and too fast, changing into her natural form right in front of his eyes. She hadn't done that in public in seven years.

_—Scott?—_

_*"This one's gonna be different."*_

The machine was already going, wave spreading out far and wide, and Scott thought he heard screams, but they could have been Raven's or Marie's, he couldn't be sure. Something caught beneath his shoe and Scott hit the ground, jarring wrist and palm, dirt shoved up beneath his fingernails, and he instinctively shut his eyes as he felt for his visor to make sure it was still in place. When he opened his eyes, he looked at the watch and the hand was on the line.

It started like something out of a movie—not an explosion nearly so much as a pure wall of white flame, coming up fast and furious from around the ground of the school. Mouth dry, Scott heard now the screams from behind him, people yelling questions, but he couldn't quite take his eyes away from the platform and the wave that—

—would not reach even Salem, and Rogue was up there.

Instantly, it too, was engulfed, before Raven had time to even change form again, and Scott knew Johnny's range down to the inch. Spinning on the ground, looking, and found him, as if he wanted to be found, no surprise there, Johnny'd never been one to deny his own complicity.

Sitting quietly on the picnic table, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes dilated completely, staring at the school with a blank face. Sweat beading on his forehead and soaking into his hair, and Scott was feeling the heat, too, knew he had to get back further. Getting to his feet somehow, stumbling toward him, not sure what he'd do when he got there—

Johnny looked at him as he collapsed by the picnic table. Nothing for an endless second, then Johnny reached behind him, dropping a bag by Scott on the ground.

"Bobby didn't look too closely." It was heavy, and Scott fingered it up numbly. "He checked the mainframe, but it's backed-up in New York. Hank should have it all by now. I think I saved everything we'd need. Kick-ass network connections we got. Thank God Kitty wasn't around to see what I was doing and cut the connection."

Johnny's gaze went back to the fire, watching for a few minutes as he forced it to his will, and Scott had seen it a hundred times before when Jean channeled through him—but this was more than mere fire. He wasn't trying to stop anything—this was total dissolution, and then Johnny shook his head. One slim hand went to his forehead, wiping sweat away with trembling fingers.

"You—"

"Look in the bag," Johnny said mildly.

As suddenly as it had begun, the fire was gone. Nothing but sparkling afterflashes in Scott's corneas, and he rubbed his eyes, breathing in the smell of ash and charred bodies. When he looked again, there was nothing left of the Mansion but the burned-out remains, crumbling where they stood. Easily, Johnny pushed himself off the table, swaying briefly before darting out a hand to grab the edge of the table.

"God, it's strong. I—haven't done that since the last time." Johnny ran a hand across his forehead again, and his palm came away slick.

"She—planned this, didn't she?" Unthinkable, unbelievable, but there. Like Johnny standing beside him and the building—the building was gone.

Johnny smiled a little.

"Yeah. She said—said you needed a new symbol, to start everything over again." Johnny shrugged a little, mouth soft and strangely dreamy. "Dead symbol, living legend, so the stories would be true. That when she died, she died for something she believed in, and she died for everyone. And that everyone get it right." Sideways glance at Scott, taking him in with a single look. "She said you'd do it. And you'd get the details right."

_*"It's a powerful thing, a symbol, to pull people together like that."*_

"She—"

"Yeah." Johnny shook his head again, smiling now. Ash from the air clinging to his skin, black patches growing on his clothes, and swaying on his feet, but the energy coursing through him was almost visible to the naked eye. "Well, wanna help?"

Scott blinked and the bag parted under his hand—his uniform. Stared down at it.

"Suit up. This is my fire, won't hurt me, but you might get injured. Good of you to fireproof the uniforms. Boots are at the bottom. Come on."

"What?"

Johnny pushed sweaty hair back, narrowing his gaze on the building thoughtfully. The blue eyes were circled in red and shadowed as they watched the flames die.

"Promised her burial," Johnny said slowly, scrubbing a hand briefly across his face. "Somewhere else. Where people could see. She hated that tomb." The pause seemed to echo a little too long, and Scott looked at the blackened remains of the school. Shock was still too close—distantly, he could hear the people, students and teachers, voices yelling and milling confusion all around them, but it didn't quite touch him, any of it.

"Her body—"

"Marie could walk through fire," Johnny answered, taking a few tentative steps before stumbling again. When he looked back, Scott couldn't read anything on his face but pure exhaustion. "Even I can't break invulnerability." Another step, and Scott found his feet, straightening. "You promised her, didn't you?"

One day, he'd be able to think about this, put it in perspective, but—not right now. It was seven years ago he buried her the first time, and it was like living life all over again. Something thickened inside him, maybe exultation and anger and the part of him that still belonged to Xavier, and he found himself nodding slowly.

"Yes. I promised."

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) I did not decide to write a novel--I decided to expand a little on a strange little short story I wrote for Darkstar's MRA challenge back last year and ended up with this. It's taken most of my attention since May and it has a soundtrack. Or two. Go figure.
> 
> 2.) If you're a fan of the sci-fi/fantasy/horror genres, the trigger is going to be somewhat familiar to you, though I've done some heavy remodeling since what I read won't work with the storyline I have in mind. The writer was Jack Finney and the book was called "The Third Level". If you get a chance, read it. Spooky doesn't begin to describe. My first reference to it was while reading Stephen King's "Danse Macabre", which utterly intrigued me in how it's the simple things that really take your mind on a major trip. I just wish I could have thrown in some Lovecraftian geometry theory so triangles wouldn't equal 180 every time, but maybe another day.
> 
> 3.) Research: If I cited everything, this would be longer than the story. Let's keep with the stuff I had on my desk while writing.
> 
> "Schindler's List" by Thomas Keneally; "The Prince" by Machiavelli; and "The Defeat of the Mind" by Alain Finkielkraut. Specific quotes are cited in the text. More internet articles than I can remember, and all my notes from my WWII in Film and Lit. class. The parallels aren't perfect, but close enough for jazz.
> 
> 4.) Movieverse: I only borrowed from comics what I needed and adapted it as I saw fit; Betsy, Remy, and Hank. The history of Carol Danvers and St. John I'm borrowing from the L &amp; L series, but you don't need to have read it to know what's going on with them. Though I admit, Carol's slightly more mellow here; I'm assuming being trapped in Rogue's head has had a salutary effect on her personality.
> 
> 5.) In my LJ - [Alternate and deleted endings](http://seperis.livejournal.com/tag/xmm%3A%20jus%20ad%20bellum)


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